


Take On We

by HarperMoonandNickGrunge



Category: Captain America (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American Soldier Man, Angst, Bloodplay, Captain Winter Spider, College, Confused Peter is Confused, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death of Fluff, Eventual Smut, Gay, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Multi, POV Peter Parker, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Romance, Roommate Stuff, SO GAY, Sadist Bucky, Sex, Stucky - Freeform, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, What Have I Done, You Have Been Warned, blowjob, buckyxpeter, buckyxstevexpeter, how do I find out, much fluff, please help, rimjob, stevexpeter, stevexpeterxbucky, stucker, what the fuck is the ship name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-20 03:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15525309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarperMoonandNickGrunge/pseuds/HarperMoonandNickGrunge
Summary: Peter Parker is twenty and a college sophomore. With his sights on a Thanos-free future, he's just distracted enough to miss the Stucky signs until the evidence is in his face.Bucky is Peter's inferno. Steve is Peter's balm.The flavors of Peter's developing relationships with both men are starkly sweet and sour. And the bond between Buck and Steve is a white hot spice Peter has never experienced.All he knows is that these two men complete his Rubrik's cube. He wants to be the puzzle piece between them.





	1. The Balcony

Moving in with Barnes and Rogers had its perks.  
Their three-bedroom condo in Brooklyn was an easy bike ride from campus. Peter never asked how they afforded it, but he knew that both men had jobs in construction on top of typical hero work. They only charged him a hundred bucks a month rent, provided he kept the apartment clean and the kitchen stocked. He could easily afford that with his side hustle of selling pictures of Spider-Man to the local paper.  
Barnes had an old pick-up, so Peter didn’t need to worry about renting a moving van to cart his crud over.  
At twenty years old, Peter was finally out from under Aunt May’s microscope. She had been unbearable after discovering his super identity and over the moon about him moving in with “professionals” who could “keep an eye on him”. Peter didn’t have to worry about snoopy roommates discovering his suit or prying into his personal life. To Barnes and Rogers, him being Spider-Man was common knowledge. Just like Peter knew about Rogers being former Captain America, newly Nomad, and Barnes being the Winter Soldier.  
Thanks to Stark’s recommendation, Peter had his pick of colleges in New York. After selecting Brooklyn College, Peter chose to go into his major as Undecided. Get his prerequisites out of the way. Get to know his professors. Get a network going. He was gunning for something in science or mathematics. Problem was he couldn’t choose between chemistry and physics. It was like designating a favorite child. Maybe he’d dabble in quantum mechanics one day. Give Stark and Pym a run for their money.  
Thanos had been defeated by some miracle Stark still wouldn’t explain. But they all knew it had to do with the Time Stone. The majority of the world did not even remember the attack. It had put Peter behind on his career path though. He had never expected to be just entering his sophomore year of college so dangerously close to twenty-one. Late. So late. Peter’s classes at BC crammed in throughout the week saw him out of the apartment for at least three hours every day with another three hours of homework and reading when he got back. Things were quiet on the cosmic criminal front.  
Living with "Mr. Barnes" and "Mr. Rogers", who had to remind Peter for two months straight that they were all on a first name basis, was so easy. So bizarrely normal. Aside from the occasional visit from a couple feds in suits to grill Bucky about his psychological profile and check up on Steve’s agenda, everything went as one might expect.  
Jokes and keys being tossed back and forth. Gym bags and jogging shoes left by the front door. Trips down to the laundry mat with bulging hampers. Turns at the sink for dish duty. A movie every other night—always on TV because the theater’s prices were so grossly inflated. Steve liked Lifetime movies; the sappy ones with strong messages and no nudity. Bucky always rolled his eyes and teased him for it, but surrendered when Steve leveled him with a look that Peter could only describe as glacial. Some nights, they’d watch one or two episodes of some crime show. Bucky loved those. He usually solved the case before Peter or Steve had a clue about the perp. Then he gloated about it for a couple hours. Mornings always came with news and coffee. After his run, Steve insisted on reading the paper in print instead of online. Bucky made eggs. On Friday nights, Bucky played pool shark and dart master at the dive bar down the street. On Saturday, they ordered in and played cards. Solitaire, Hold-'em, Golf, War. Bucky and Steve spent too much time arguing over the rules of Gin Rummy for the game to go smoothly. Usually, they let Peter pick the take-out place as a way of apologizing for being so competitive. Slash pigheaded. On Sundays, Steve dragged Bucky and Peter to church.  
Bucky smoked at least twice at the day’s end, so he’d be on the balcony like clockwork. Sometimes, Peter and Steve would join him and they’d be out with beers or cocktails until after sunset, swapping stories from construction sites and school and taking digs at one another. Bucky went on a date every now and then. Steve kept to himself for the most part. And, unlike Bucky, Steve didn’t give Peter a hard time about the lack of ladies in his life, or his aversion to parties on Greek Row.  
There was talk of getting a pet for the house because they “needed a mascot”. Bucky wanted a cat. Steve wanted a dog. Peter liked both. They never made much headway on the decision.  
Sometimes Steve and Buck shared a room for the night when Bucky took a turn for the worst. Steve had explained to Peter early on about Bucky’s nightmares, occasional relapses, and his tendency to sleep-walk when he felt unstable. Bunking together was the easiest way to watch over him and safeguard him from himself. Peter kept his bedroom door locked at night until three months passed without incident.  
And another great thing? Steve and Bucky knew Peter could handle himself. They gave him freedom. Asked minimal questions. Kept conversation light and casual. Never haggled him about a curfew or coming home late or leaving early. Or sleeping in, for that matter.  
They even took a day trip once a month. Fishing at the Pier. Coney Island. Central Park.  
It was the closest to normal independence that Peter could have envisioned for himself.  
Five months after moving in, Peter hauled his grocery bags up the stairs and fumbled with his keys at the door. Once inside, he shouldered the door shut and hoofed it into the kitchen. The living room lamp was on.  
“Guys?” he called, letting the bags down on the counter. No answer. He checked the time: half past five. Peter started unloading the first bag and glanced out at the balcony. The curtains were open just enough to reveal two beers on their little patio table, sorely in need of a scrub down. Bucky looked out over the city with a cigarette between his fingers and a hand in his pocket. Steve stood beside him, leaning back with his elbows on the railing. Peter couldn’t hear what they were saying with the door shut and the cacophony of nightlife rising outside. Bucky ashed his smoke. Steve smiled and glanced at his shoes. Bucky shifted his weight and took his hand out of his pocket before he reached across Steve and closed his hand on the railing. Steve met his eyes, but he didn’t move. Bucky leaned in.  
Peter dropped the plastic jar of Jiffy. He blinked. Blinked harder. The scene didn’t change.  
They were . . . kissing.  
Kissing!  
“Holy shit,” he whispered, gawking. Peter whirled around. His stomach spun. His mouth worked with no sound, confusion and heat filling his head to bursting. He scrambled out of the kitchen, out of sight of the balcony. Peter opened the apartment door and slammed it. Hard. Then he caught a picture that fell off its nail and frantically righted it.  
“Guys!” he hollered. “I’m home!” He cringed.  
God. How did he unsee that? Peter knew without a doubt that he wasn’t supposed to see that at all! He couldn’t have been. Were they . . . ? No way. No. Bucky went on dates. Steve took communion.  
It must have been a mistake. Bucky was probably teasing him about something. Yeah. It was a misunderstanding. Peter had been studying too hard. Maybe his blood sugar was low.  
Thoughts in tangles, Peter darted back into the kitchen.  
The glass door sighed open. Steve—all sunlight and clear skies in comparison to Bucky’s starlit darkness—stepped through the curtains and smiled.  
“Hey, kiddo. You need any help with those?”


	2. The Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to delude himself into believing it didn't happen. But alcohol never lies.

The following Friday evening, just before they were destined for the dive bar, Peter sat in an arm chair in the den. Peter hadn’t been able to sleep more than an hour last night and had shuffled out the door bleary eyed to make it to his AM class. He had distracted himself with coursework for the rest of the day and a merciful, though brief, nap when he dozed off during his reading. When he woke up, everything came flooding back to him with startling clarity. He had been alone in his room as he weighed the facts with what he suspected.  
But now, they were together.  
In the den.  
And Peter could still see that sliver of balcony through the curtains.  
Steve, fishing through television channels, sat catty-corner to Peter on the two-seater sofa while Bucky riffled through the fridge for a lager.  
“You boys want anything?” Bucky called.  
“No thanks,” Peter said quickly.  
Steve smiled. “I’ll take a Coke if we got one.”  
Bucky grunted. “Just Pepsi.”  
Steve playfully shot Peter a sidelong smirk. “Traitor.”  
Peter flushed, looked away, and bumbled through a laugh as he feigned interest in his phone.  
“That works,” Steve answered over his shoulder.  
Bucky came around the counter and tossed Steve a cool blue can. Steve caught it with a grin and popped the tab. The Pepsi hissed. Peter, senses so heightened, could smell the syrup and spiced sugar from where he sat.  
Peter jumped when Bucky squeezed his shoulder and mussed his hair on the way by.  
“You’re awful quiet tonight, kid.” His mech hand held a Guinness.  
Scrambling for an excuse, Peter said, “Just stressed, I guess. Midterms.”  
“You need some fun in your life.” Bucky plopped down beside Steve, twisted off the beer cap, and tossed it into the little trash bin at the base of the lamp. He swigged. Bucky put his heel on the coffee table. “Any plans for the weekend?”  
“Naw.” Peter smiled, trying to keep his countenance calm. Nonchalant.  
“It’s pretty close to Homecoming. And elections. I’m sure there’ll be some real ragers off campus.” Bucky toasted him with a smirk.  
“Oh. Yeah.” Come to think of it, the girl who needed his notes from Monday had invited Peter to a sorority party this morning.  
“You should check it out. Get a few numbers.” Bucky wagged his brows and took another swig.  
Steve gave Bucky a weary look. “James. He hates parties. And that’s OK. Not everyone enjoys that sort of crowd.”  
James. Steve only called Bucky by his real name when things got serious, which was rare.  
“I know. But I want the guy to branch out. I feel like he’s missing a lot. This weekend. Because tomorrow is Saturday. Saturday, October 16th. And Saturday is always party night.” Bucky’s voice was tight. Punctuated. Nothing like the lazily arrogant drawl he normally used.  
Peter glanced up and caught Bucky staring at Steve, his wide eyes stony. Their legs were touching. Oh, god. How had Peter never noticed that?! Had they always touched when they sat together? When they watched TV together? When they played cards?  
No. It was a small couch. It was just a small couch and they were abnormally large guys. Just two guys.  
Steve sighed. Peter could have sworn a conceding smile shown in his eyes.  
“Maybe he’s right, Peter. Parties are good places to meet people.” Steve smiled encouragingly. “And if you happen to make a friend, you can do all sorts of other things. You don’t have to party with them every weekend.”  
There was no way Peter could weather a Saturday night alone with Steve and Bucky so soon after seeing them on the balcony. He’d totally crack. Maybe a party was exactly what he needed to forget about it.  
“Yeah. I know. OK. I’ll give it a try.”

Late the next night, Peter stumbled into the apartment. Cigarette smoke and Ko Palace filled his nostrils. The world spun. He braced against the wall and frowned at the picture that he vaguely remembered hanging up earlier this week. Why had he hung it so crooked? Peter fixed it. Gave it a sage nod.  
He stood up, struggling to get his eyes to blink evenly.  
“Listen,” he said, pointing a finger at the lamp. “Only God can judge.” He swayed. “Room, you are not sill. /Still/. Sit still.” Nausea churned in his gut. Peter groaned and trudged toward the nearest bathroom. The light was on—thank space Jesus. Peter would never have remembered where it was.  
He opened the door.  
Near the toilet, Steve surged to his feet and quickly wiped his mouth. Bucky was standing. He had his back to Peter, fiddling with something by the shower curtain. Steve cleared his throat. Neither of them wore a shirt.  
“Oh no. You’re sick too?” Peter hiccupped. He was glad he missed take-out night.  
“Y—yeah,” Steve stammered glancing between Peter and Bucky. “Bad Chinese.”  
“Jesus Christ, I’m going to kill this kid,” Bucky whispered sharply. He still had his back to Peter.  
“m’sorry,” Peter slurred. “I lost to King Chad, Lord of Lady Bits in beer pong. Didn’t wanna be too good’n’draw ‘tention. He said I had to drink his side of the table, too. Because I am so bad at it.”  
“I’m going to kill this kid,” Bucky hissed again, tilting his head toward heaven.  
Steve came forward with his hand out. The concern in his eyes made Peter feel much safer.  
“Oh, Pete. That’s rough. Are you OK?”  
“Do you know what Jager is, Mr. Steve? It means monster, but there’s a deer on the bottle. Like Bambi's dad. Don’t let it fool you.” He grabbed at the door handle to keep from tumbling over. Instead, Steve caught him. Peter leaned against his impossibly solid body.  
“Buck. Would you go get me a bottle of water and a clean shirt?”  
“Fuck no,” Bucky growled.  
“James.” Steve’s voice was edged with ice. “He went to the party. He took your advice. If you want a happy ending tonight, you best get me a god damn bottle of water and a clean shirt /now/.”  
Peter had never heard Steve curse before. He snorted out a laugh.  
Growling and grumbling, Bucky shouldered past them and stalked off down the hall.  
“Come here. That’s it. Right over here.” Steve took Peter’s wrist and walked him over to the toilet. He helped him kneel on the shower rug.  
Peter slumped over, his arms folded on the seat.  
“I’m fffine,” he slurred, rallying his expression to be convincing. “I don’t need to—” His whole body lurched as he hurled his guts up into the toilet.  
Steve sat down on the edge of the bathtub and placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder. He squeezed.  
“It’s OK, buddy. Get it out. We’ve all been here. Me included.”  
Peter heard Bucky come and go from the bathroom, exchanging hushed, harsh words with Steve before he stormed out again.  
“m’sorry,” Peter repeated. He groaned.  
“It’s OK, Pete. I promise. Focus on breathing.” He opened a bottle of water. “You need to drink this. As much as you can.”  
Peter took the bottle and took a few gulps. He hiccupped. Steve rubbed his back.  
“Did you have an OK time at least?”  
Peter mumbled through bursts of memory, telling Steve about the jam packed party house and the girl who wanted him to play a card game with her and her friends. But it wasn’t like their card games. It was called Suck and Blow. Peter handed the water bottle back to Steve before another round of vomiting. The Jager stung his throat so bad that tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.  
Peter wiped his mouth and sniffed.  
“I saw you guys.”  
“What’s that, Pete?”  
Peter rolled his head in Steve’s direction and stared intensely.  
“Kissing? You’n Bucky. By the beers. I saw you guys like…” Peter pressed his fingers together, like ducks or dinosaur heads, and touched his fingertips together repeatedly. “Like that.”  
Steve went still and turned so pale, he may as well have been a bed sheet. Peter snickered.  
“We should get you cleaned up and into bed, kiddo,” Steve said softly before he flushed the toilet.  
Peter frowned, watching the foul water swirl out of sight. “But I was talking about something. Now I can’t remember what it was.”  
“You need to sleep.”  
Steve helped Peter change his sick splashed shirt into a much bigger one than Peter usually wore. It smelled like good detergent.  
“We’ll talk in the morning.”  
Peter nodded, his eyelids heavy. “mm-kay.”


	3. The Bakery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting to the news about his roommates is one thing, but Peter was not prepared for it to make him grapple with his own sexuality. Or at least his own deviant imagination.

Even the dimmest ray of sunlight sliced through his head like a dagger. Peter groaned. Turning his head to check the time, he noticed a glass of transparent fluid on his bedside table with a little notecard beside it.  
‘Drink me,’ it read.  
He could see a film around the top, the liquid a dull pink-orange color with bubbles every now and then. It was an effort to reach for it and a greater one to sit up. Peter took the glass in gulps, the water cooling his thirst and the sharp citrus taste confirming it had been spiked with vitamin C and electrolyte tablets. Thank God.  
It was an hour short of noon. Bucky and Steve would be out of church by now.  
As his eyes adjusted to the mid-morning light, he raked his memory about the night before. He remembered the cab ride. The party. Bits of the cab ride back to the apartment. He remembered seeing the stairs leading to their floor. But that’s where his memory stopped. He must have stumbled in here and . . .  
Peter checked for his wallet. His keys. His phone. All there on his bureau. Why did he feel like he was forgetting something important? And why could he still smell the Jager in his nose? Peter stood with a wave of nausea and stumbled into his cubicle of a bathroom. He flicked on the light, caught his reflection in the mirror, and froze.  
He was wearing a Dodgers shirt. /Steve’s/ Dodgers shirt.  
Missing bits of last night came hurtling back as wordless images. Crooked picture. Ko Palace. Light under the door. Steve and Bucky in the bathroom. Harsh words and hushed whispers. A water bottle. And Peter heaving half a gallon of God knew what into their bathroom toilet.  
Peter’s face sizzled with embarrassment.  
“Oh no,” he groaned. He had to seriously thank and apologize to them ASAP.  
He tore himself away from the mirror and showered off his shame. He’d get Steve’s shirt dry cleaned this week.  
After scrubbing his mouth squeaky with a toothbrush, Peter dressed, toweled off his hair, and headed for the kitchen. The strong scent of coffee washed over him. Maybe he’d make the guys lunch. Have it ready when they got home. Halfway down the hall, Peter heard a low conversation coming from the dinner table. He stopped short of the corner.  
“Why are you being so glib about this? He deserves to know.”  
So Steve and Bucky hadn’t gone to service after all.  
“If we wanted him to know, we would have told him when we moved him in.”  
“You said he saw us kissin’.”  
“That’s what he told me.”  
Shit. Shit! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Peter must have spilled the beans when he was plastered. Damn him.  
He heard the clinking of porcelain mugs on glass.  
“Was he upset?”  
“I couldn’t tell.”  
“Steve. It’s New York. He’s in college. I’m sure he sees dudes sucking face all the time.”  
“That’s not why I’m worried, Buck. And you know it. We’ve worked together for four years. He trusts us. You lied to him. About the dates. I told you not to do that.”  
“What was I supposed to say?”  
“The truth.”  
“That I see a shrink? Fuck no. Crazy people see shrinks. People who belong in the loony bin see shrinks.”  
“He’s a teammate. And a friend. Mental health isn’t like it was in our day, baby. People see therapists all the—”  
“I don’t fuckin’ care. It’s embarrassing.”  
“What are we gonna do?”  
“We should never have kept it a secret to begin with. I say tell the kid.”  
“He would be the first of the team to know.”  
“Natasha knows.”  
“James. Natasha has known since my dramatic reaction to seeing you again.”  
“Probably sooner. You did tell me about that kiss on the escalator.”  
“Let’s agree to never bring that up again.”  
“Look. Steve. Letting Pete in on you and me makes it less awkward. And then I don’t have to be clandestine about asking for sex anymore.”  
“You were never clandestine about it,” Steve muttered wryly. A slurp. The clinking of porcelain on glass.  
Bucky tsked. “Whether the guy knows it or not, he has watched our relationship exactly the way it has always been. Our romance isn’t a god damn Lifetime movie, doll. We’re not about to hold hands on the street or share some dumb little kiss in a café. He can handle it, Steve.”  
“Are you sure?” Steve’s voice was quiet. Hollow. “What if . . . What if he can’t? What if he can’t accept us?”  
While Bucky’s aversion to therapy harkened back to the horrors of Skid Row, this fear must have been Steve’s hang-up from the 1900s. Peter knew enough history to remember how same-sex love was treated back then.  
“Then he’s free to leave.” The sound of a quick kiss. “I ain’t givin’ you up for anything.”  
“I care about him, Buck. Communicating this should have been easy. And a priority. What if by not telling him, we screwed up that friendship?”  
How had Peter completely missed this? Missed them? How had he been so oblivious to something right in front of him? Peter would never have been surprised to find out Steve had a boyfriend. Stark had hinted at that theory for two years. But the unassailable fact that that boyfriend was Bucky . . . ?  
That took getting used to.  
It changed their entire dynamic. Didn’t it?  
Or did it?  
Peter reflected on their routines. Evenings spent on the balcony. Day trips. Quality time.  
He blinked, the tension unbraiding from between his shoulders.  
/We’re not about to hold hands on the street or share some dumb little kiss in a café./  
No, he realized. It didn’t change a damn thing.  
Steve and Bucky had been a couple then, too. Every time they shared a laugh or a look or a sunset or a joke that Peter wasn’t yet privy to. They hadn’t taken lengths to hide it from him. It just came that naturally. Naturally enough that their love, the foundation they shared as friends, was probably more romantic than public displays of affection.  
The confusion inside Peter ebbed.  
“I do wish you would have told me,” Peter said, announcing his presence as he rounded the corner. “Never know. I could have been developing a big ol’ crush on you and not realized you were taken.”  
Steve went rigid, staring at Peter with his big Caribbean blues as Peter plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl. He tossed the apple and caught it when it came down. Peter took a bite. Bucky burst out laughing.  
Peter smiled and swallowed. “Thanks, guys. For last night. I'm sorry.”  
Relief poured into Steve’s face as his broad shoulders sagged. “No problem. Good to see you on your feet.”  
Bucky shook his finger and sat back. “Oh no. No. You’re gonna be paying for interrupting that for a while, kid.”  
Peter frowned. “Interrupting what?”  
Bucky smiled, turning on that lazy arrogance as easily as flipping the switch for the fan. “The Chinese was delicious last night, by the way. Saved some chow mien for you, if you're interested.”  
Peter frowned. Faced Steve. “But I thought you said . . . “  
Steve, face half hidden by his coffee mug with his attention on the napkins, didn’t say anything. 

Peter did pay for it. Whatever /it/ was. He was on triple laundry duty for the next week and a half. And he did it gladly. It was the least he could do for what he had put them through.  
However, their relationship must have been more stuck in his subconscious than he anticipated, because every other night, Peter had raunchy dreams that landed him in a cold shower the next morning. In most of them, he watched. Which was uncomfortably erotic. Peter had never explored voyeurism. Though, a good porn once in awhile did wonders for his endorphin levels. He rubbed one out once a day at least. But somehow, doing it with his friends in mind seemed wrong. Really wrong.  
Thursday night’s was the steamiest yet. Steve and Bucky sharing that impossibly small shower, Steve pressed into a tight corner, Bucky between his legs, Steve's hands in his hair. Bucky's hands . . . somewhere else. The two of them mouth to mouth and doing anything but getting clean.  
Shit. Focus.  
Rehashing that scene would induce a problem inappropriate for his AM class. Peter found himself at the volunteer bakery of the student union building afterward, paging through a copy of the textbook. Professor Sullivan’s exam was Monday and he was known for dishing out doozies.  
“Hey,” said a feminine voice.  
Peter looked up, startled. “Hey!”  
“Parker, right? Peter.” She wore a computer bag over one slim shoulder, high rimmed boots, and an over-the-shoulder top. The girl pushed her sunglasses up onto her head where her jet-black hair hung in a messy bun.  
Peter blinked. Why did she seem . . . ?  
“It’s Molly. Molly Roark? From Political Science class. And the wild party a couple weeks ago.”  
“Oh my god! That’s right. I’m sorry.” He stuck his hand out and shook hers early. “How you been?”  
“You seem a little distracted. Mind if I sit with you? I’m dying to eat this and the other tables are full.”  
“Not at all. Please.” They sat down. Peter took a breath to brave another question, but she silenced him with a finger.  
“Bagel first. Then chat.”  
Peter nodded.  
She unwrapped her breakfast, a thick cheesy whole grain bun stuffed with turkey and lettuce and cream cheese, and took a huge bite. Molly moaned.  
After a gulp of her coffee, “Fuck the rules. I love carbs.”  
“The rules?” Peter grinned.  
“Sorority stuff,” she reported with a pout. “We’re not allowed to eat like this. And I’m fucking miserable.”  
Peter laughed. “Well, you look incredible. You should probably go get three more of those at least.”  
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a sweetie. OK. I have a question.”  
“Yeah?” Peter picked up his coffee.  
“Are you gay?”  
Peter choked. “N—no,” he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth.  
Molly gave him a once-over. “Are you sure?”  
“Yeah. I’ve had three very serious girlfriends.”  
“So have I.” She shrugged inconsequentially. She leaned forward with a quirky smirk. “You don’t remember me kissing you, do you?”  
Face burning, Peter guffawed. “No. No way. I would have remembered that!”  
“mhm. You call yourself bi then?”  
Dumbfounded, Peter blinked. “What?”  
“Honey. I’m from West Hollywood. You were ten times more interested in playing beer pong with that frat prince than hanging out with me. And you took every punishment he dished at you like you were thirsty for more. I do not blame you. Give me some sriracha and sticky rice and I would eat that boy raw.” With an angelic smile, she tucked into her bagel again.  
“I’m not—”  
Molly blinked, her eyebrows shooting halfway up her head. “Not what?”  
“I’ve never . . . ”  
“Oh, you poor cinnamon roll.” She sighed. “Looks like we’re going to embark on this journey of self-discovery together. Sadly, I spent all my allowance on Lululemon and don’t have enough to afford to plane tickets back home until Christmas. So, it looks like we’ll have to work with what we’re given here.”  
“Molly—”  
She polished off her bagel, sucked two fingers clean, and crunched the package into a ball. Molly shot for the trash can and sunk it.  
“No buts. Tomorrow is Halloween. Tonight, I’m taking you to The Library.”  
Peter frowned. “The Library? For books on bisexuality?”  
Molly laughed.


	4. The Balcony Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to The Library only to discover he checked out of heterosexuality years ago.

“Bad dream?”  
Peter jumped from his place by the balcony railing. The crisp night air raised goosebumps on his flesh. Or was it something else?  
“Yeah. Somethin' like that.” How long had he been standing out here? It had to be only a couple hours until dawn.  
“huh,” Bucky Barnes said, emerging through the sliding glass door and that split in the curtains. The porch light was low enough not to disturb the neighbors, but it still threw shadows across the soldier’s face.  
“I get those sometimes. Usually don’t wind up out here though. Specially not in late October.”  
Peter turned away to hide the heat in his cheeks. The Library hadn’t been a library at all, but a sexually fluid strip club. Molly had managed to get him tipsy enough not to ask questions during the pregame party at her place. He had been bamboozled when he walked in. But, to his shame, he couldn’t look away.  
“Needed fresh air,” Peter mumbled. He curled his hands tighter together.  
Bucky scoffed through his nose. With a voice like warm suede and dark chocolate, “Then you better get out of New York, kid.”  
“Very funny.” Peter dug his nails into his knuckles.  
“heh.”  
Peter couldn’t deny the truth anymore: women /and/ men got him going. He had simply kept himself from looking, from wanting, from considering until he saw Steve and Bucky kissing a couple weeks ago.  
Buck was silent as he came up beside Peter to bend over and brace his elbows on the icy railing.  
“Heard you.”  
Peter froze. “What did you hear?”  
“I think you know, Parker. We’ve heard you for a couple nights now. Moanin’. Sayin’ our names in your sleep. Steve’s nicer than I am. Doesn’t bring it up. He’s a sweet thing. But you know that, too. Don’t you, kid?”  
Bucky turned around with that swagger that made Peter’s spine go limp as a noodle and leaned back against the railing. He fixed Peter in an icy stare.  
“That’s what you want.”  
Peter felt Bucky’s tortoise green eyes crawl from his toes to his temples.  
“A sweet thing.”  
Panic lanced through Peter. “What are you—?” Suddenly, Bucky was closer. Close enough that Peter could smell his last cigarette. Tall enough to shade him, Peter plunged into the full darkness of the night and the true terror of the Winter Soldier's presence.  
“You like him. Like the way he takes care of you. You like the way he protects you.”  
“I . . . ” Peter stammered.  
“You want him. Don’t ya?” Bucky’s breath was strangely warm against his ear.  
Seized with nausea, Peter tried to scrub his brain clean of the times he had pictured Steve’s face on the male strippers tonight, as though Bucky could look into his head and read his thoughts like a doctor looking at bones through an x-ray machine.  
“No. Mr. Barnes, God no!”  
“sh. He’s asleep,” Bucky warned lowly. “And it’s Bucky. Dammit, kid, you know that by now.”  
Peter shook his head solemnly. “You’re together. I would never.” Impossibly close now, Peter tensed at the softness of Bucky’s wool sweater.  
“Shut up for a fuckin’ second and listen to me. Steve cares about you. A lot. In the last month, he’s said a couple things that have made me wonder.”  
Peter trembled. “Wonder what?”  
Bucky’s breath warmed the shell of Peter’s ear again. “How bad he wants to put his cock in you.”  
Peter felt Bucky’s lips ease into a grin. To some, it may have been a smile. To Peter, it felt like the waiting jaws of a panther.  
“I’m a jealous guy, Pete. But I share when it suits me,” his broad body shrugged, “so long as things go my way.”  
“Your way?”  
Bucky stared hard. “That a fuckin’ problem?”  
“No. No, sir.”  
“Good." Bucky sighed and turned his attention on the sprinkling of stars visible through the smog. "Tomorrow night is Samhain. Steve’s ma celebrated it. So we do, too—in place of Halloween.”  
“Samhain,” Peter repeated.  
“Celtic holiday. You know.” He gave a short, breathy laugh. “Steve’s Irish and all, if you couldn’t tell by the way he wears his blood vessels so close to the surface.”  
An image of Steve blushing bolted through Peter's thoughts. The way he smiled and stared at his shoes. The kindness in his eyes when he asked Peter how his day went. If he needed anything.  
“S—sounds interesting.”  
“You wanna come?”  
The way Bucky emphasized that last word sent Peter's head spinning. “I—”  
“To the party, I mean. Our little party.”  
Peter swallowed hard. Maybe this was an olive branch? A peace offering? Steve was a friend. A mentor. So was Bucky. That was all. These musings would pass. They had to.  
“S—sure.”  
Bucky chuckled. “I’ll fix you up with somethin’ good, Peter. Get you in real close with him. So long as you’re ready to . . . do something good for me when I ask.”  
Peter wanted to run. He had never felt smaller. Never felt more helpless. His body burned feverishly.  
“I don’t want any trouble, Bucky," he managed.  
“Too bad. You got some. You got it the minute you interrupted the best head I’ve had in four fuckin’ months. Do you know how long I’ve blue balled because you moved in? Because he’s so concerned about your delicate sensibilities?”  
Oh, God. The bathroom. Their bathroom—that night Peter had staggered into the apartment piss drunk.  
“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered.  
“Sir,” Bucky corrected. “I’m sorry, SIR.”  
“I’m sorry, sir.”  
“Good boy. I’m curious. Any chance you might want me? Want me like you do him?”  
Peter’s senses pricked with the hairs on his arms. “Y—you scare me.”  
“I know. You kept your door locked for ninety-four days.”  
Peter went rigid, wide eyed as he stared out at the city without seeing it.  
“Peter, if you don’t want in on this, then don’t show up tomorrow night. I’ll never bring it up again. I swear. I like having you around; a lot. You’re a good kid. Steve smiles more when you’re here. I just want you to be very transparent with yourself, and with me, about how you feel. What you want. I can only tolerate so much of your bedtime fantasies. If it’s friendship, then things will go back to exactly the way they were. No questions asked. If it’s more, things will change. That choice is yours. Do you understand me?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
Bucky paused. When he spoke again, his voice maintained it’s deep timbre, but it had transitioned from coarse suede to soft velvet.  
“Breathe,” he said. “ Steve tells me my dominant side can be overwhelming, no matter how harmless I actually am.”  
“Harmless,” Peter choked out. “I doubt that.”  
Bucky sighed. “I only hurt people when I’m commanded to, Pete. It’s . . . residual conditioning from my time in Hydra.”  
Peter slowly adjusted his stare to meet Bucky’s eyes, finding them warmed from forest pine to tropical palms.  
“Wanna know somethin’ fucked up, kid? I envy you sometimes. You do things without over-thinking. You see the present and not the past. You’re genuine. And nothing you do is robotic. I wonder if . . . if Steve would be happier with someone like you.” His voice trailed off.  
“Bucky, no way,” Peter insisted. “No way.”  
Bucky pursed his lips before he continued, his gaze going wintery again. “Seven thirty. If you’re not here, then I’ll know your answer. And Steve will never find out about this conversation.”  
Slowly, skeptically, Peter nodded. “OK.”  
“OK. Now march your ass out of the cold and back to bed. Drink some water. Get some real sleep. You’re safe here. I can’t promise much. But I can promise that.”  
Dazed, Peter peeled himself away from the railing and headed for the door.  
“N—night.”  
Bucky didn't reply.


	5. The Boogie Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Samhain.

The blinding sunlight and boom of traffic horns had Peter half out of his mind as he hurried up the marble steps past the potted plants and bird baths.  
Half asleep in her slipper-heels and a Japanese bathrobe, Molly opened her French doors after Peter’s third round of rapid-fire knocking. Sleeping had proven impossible. He had practically galloped out of the apartment before Steve and Bucky could rouse for breakfast. Anxiety serving as a whet stone for his senses, Peter could hardly think straight as he tried to simultaneously process the worlds without and within.  
“Parker? What the—?” Behind her, a few glasses and empty bottles lingered from the night before.  
“I need your help,” he exclaimed.  
Maybe it was cliché, but after Bucky’s invite, Peter was desperate. Mercifully, Molly made them cappuccino as Peter, in intentionally ambiguous detail, described his situation. When he finished, Molly stared at him from the Keurig. Peter gulped.  
“I don’t know what to do. Or what to wear. Or how to act.” He raked his hands through his hair. The bulbs above the kitchen table buzzed. His head throbbed. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”  
Sparks ignited in Molly’s eyes. She whirled around, yanked open the freezer, and pulled a bottle of maple flavored whiskey from its place on the ice tray.  
“I have an idea!”  
It took three shots to get Peter’s Spidey senses down to a dull roar. By the time the world grew pleasantly foggy, Molly had hauled an old chest down from the linen closet, thrown it open, and began digging through a dozen Halloween costumes. Peter tried on six before they found the right fit. Two of the outfits had Molly rolling in hysterics. It was less funny to Peter, especially since he had never seen Rocky Horror Picture Show. They were napping before noon.  
Peter awoke painfully sober. Molly shoved him into her shower with an armful of products he helped her select.  
He had gapped at her closet of choices. Rows upon rows of shampoos and conditioners ranging from cedar to mocha to orchid to pear. Bar soaps, sugar and salt scrubs, and gels in citrus scents, dessert fragrances, and floral aromas. Herbal additives in jasmine, lavender, spearmint, eucalyptus, and sage. Spiced oils. Bath bombs. Lotions and body butters. Some strictly feminine. Some masculine. Others unisex.  
She had more nail polish shades than he had phalanges.  
“My uncles send me monthly care packages,” she had explained when she caught him gawking. “I think they’re under the impression that Brooklyn doesn’t have bath and body shops. I keep everything. It’s important to give guests choices.”  
Considering that Molly did not stay on Greek Row in the sorority house, but in her own four-bedroom two-story condo with a rooftop garden, Peter could only assume that the Roark family had money coming out of their ears. Peter wondered how many guests she typically hosted.  
With a pang of guilt, he remembered how he had not called Aunt May this week. As he lathered up with orange ZING, Peter made a promise to himself not only to phone her tonight, but to start putting together monthly care packages for her, too. Her favorite flower was lilac, her favorite flavor banana. It gave him clue enough what she might like from the pampering aisle. 

At seven twenty-eight, Peter stood on the sidewalk, staring up into the lighted windows of the apartment he shared with Steve and Bucky. Warm, but low. And the occasional flicker assured there were candles in use, too. In the chilly autumn air, Peter checked his outfit one more time—tested the belt, adjusted the hat, tugged on the gloves, glanced over the many buckles and zippers.  
Peter clung to every ounce of courage he could find as he climbed the stairs. With a deep breath, Peter unlocked and opened the door.  
Smoke curled from a stick of incense on the coffee table. He could detect the last remnants of lemon cleaning products underneath the cloud of apple, fresh bread, potato, and pork roast. A bowl of potpourri sat on the end table. A cinnamon broom hung above the door. And all this woven together by a low, melancholic rhythm—rich with cello and harp and chimes and piano—coming from the stereo.  
Everything about the apartment that had been so plain before seemed to Peter mysterious and calm, shadowed and waiting for something greater than himself to explain it in such a way that it would seem a novelty. His gaudy, loud costume felt... wrong. And the natural persuasion of the atmosphere to be lulled into resigned contentment warred with his pins and needles of just blatantly not belonging there.  
Steve looked up from where he had been lighting candles on the mantle. Peter stopped short at the sight of him. Barefoot and dressed in a bone-white muslin shirt which hung untucked and unbuttoned just enough to tease at his chest and plain blue jeans, Steve was a casual Adonis.  
“Pete,” Steve greeted. He smiled and Peter watched the candle flame climb higher. “Buck said you might be coming.”  
“Y—Yeah. Where’s your costume?”  
From where Bucky had peeked around the kitchen at Peter, Bucky burst out laughing.  
Steve flashed Bucky a chilly expression and huffed through his nose.  
“It’s not quite that kind of party,” Steve explained sympathetically.  
Peter felt fire licking his face. “Oh.” He tried to smile and scratched at his neck. More like OH GOD HOW DO I GET OUT OF THIS.  
Still laughing, Bucky rounded the counter with one hand around the neck of a Jameson bottle. He passed the dinner table, set with bowls of nuts, a bread basket, and other covered dishes Peter could only hazard guesses at. Barnes, also barefoot, wore charcoal jeans and a black shirt that had the sleeves shoved up above his elbows. He strode to where Peter stood. Bucky closed the door through which Peter seriously considered bolting and roped his mech arm around Peter’s shoulders. It whirred in reply.  
Harmless, Peter had to remind himself. Harmless.  
“Is this fuckin’ Michael Jackson?” Bucky barked out another round of laughter, shook is head, and gave Peter’s chest a couple good pokes as he led him further into the apartment. “You, kid. You’re great. You’re fuckin’ great. Glad you could make it.” With a clap on the back, Bucky pushed away, chuckling, and fished his pack of smokes out of his pocket as he headed out onto the balcony. He shut the door behind him.  
By the time Peter could orientate himself again, Steve stood beside him. Gently, he bumped up against his shoulder.  
“Buck didn’t tell you what Samhain is, did he?”  
“It’s that obvious, eh?” Peter muttered with a bit of resentment, casting a sidelong look to where Bucky stood smoking. But how was that an excuse? Peter had been focused on all the wrong things. It could have been avoided with a little help from Google. “Should I?” Peter’s voice trailed off as he gestured to his shoes.  
“Sit,” Steve instructed, nodding to the sofa. Peter did.  
Surprise replaced his shame when Steve knelt at Peter’s feet and began untying the intricate web of Peter’s boot laces. He stammered, but could not force himself to make a coherent sound. Steve started speaking again before Peter could insist on doing it himself.  
“It’s the Celtic holiday Halloween was modeled after. It’s a day of remembering the dead—those who’ve gone before you—and welcoming winter’s peace.”  
“Is that what the food and candles are for?”  
“Yes.” Steve removed one boot.  
“I thought you were Christian.”  
“I am.” He slid the second boot off Peter’s foot.  
“But you celebrate Pagan holidays?” Peter stared at the way Steve’s dark lashes fanned over his cheeks and the candlelight rippled over his face as the man set his borrowed boots aside.  
He smiled wistfully. “It was important to my ma. She always said it made more sense to cherish a day of remembrance than one about retail. Never had the money to get costumes anyway. We got Memorial Day for the war. But . . . Buck and I have lost a lot of people. This is their day. I don’t think the Big Guy minds.”  
Peter occupied himself by unbuckling his gloves, fingerless or not, and shucking them off.  
A lot of people. The phrase echoed through Peter’s head. A lot of people? Steve and Bucky had lost everything. Every piece, person, and part of their time period. How did the man always manage to be so modest about that? To gloss over it. Then again, what could be done?  
The Time Stone came to mind. What must it be like for them—to know it was possible to go back, but that doing so would irreparably change the future and potentially damn the world?  
Selflessly stuck. That’s what they were.  
Peter wanted to curl into a ball. This could not have gone worse. “Never thought of it like that. Sorry I misunderstood.”  
Steve, close enough that Peter could smell the Irish Spring on his skin, shook his head and met Peter’s eyes. “You didn’t know. And you look really great. Honestly. I’m sorry you went through all the trouble. It’s a real snazzy look for you.”  
He was close enough to kiss. Close enough to hear the thundering riot in Peter’s rib cage.  
“Thanks,” he whispered sheepishly. Peter licked his lip. “What else do you do?”  
Steve shrugged. “Eat. Drink. Laugh. Cry. Swap stories and share memories before midnight.”  
“Can’t say I’m not excited about the food. Smells awesome. What happens at midnight?”  
“Samhain ends. And usually we . . . commemorate a new beginning.” Steve stood up.  
“Commemorate?” Peter questioned.  
Steve seemed to be searching for the box of matches he had left on the mantle. “As in . . . ”  
“Carnally,” Bucky clarified as he stepped back through the door, his presence bringing something stormy into the mix. He shut the door. Loudly. As if he meant it to punctuate his point. When he winked, Peter could have died.  
Tensely, Steve added, “I’m sure you’ve got some great invites tonight, Peter. And I’d hate for this costume to go unseen.” When Peter couldn’t sponge the discomfort from his face, Steve hurried on, “Buck and I have done this for five years now. We’ve never had a guest. Thank you for coming.”  
With that, Peter’s spirits guttered. He knew everything Bucky had not told Steve. Steve hadn’t a clue about the test behind the festivities. Steve hadn’t the slightest notion of the undercurrent or overtones of his and Bucky’s interlude on the balcony. He tried to buoy his mood with an appetite. Had this been a mistake? Was it just a joke to Barnes?  
The next five hours passed precisely the way Steve had suggested.  
After Peter had conquered his anxiety with an apple ale and loosened up, he joined Steve and Bucky at the fireplace where they talked and snacked on cashews.  
Bucky showed off a few pictures from before and during the war.  
Peter helped carve the pork loin when it came out of the oven. Plates piled with food, they sat around the table together.  
Peter listened to their adventures in the Howling Commandos. The time Dugan had single handedly navigated a mine field. The time Dernier and Pinkerton launched into a heated political debate nearly resulting in both of them pulling their guns until Jones and Morita doused them with buckets of river water. The times Sawyer showed them all how to cook venison, skin rabbits, and live decently in the winter. Maybe they weren’t so much mourning their brothers in arms as they were the men they had been while in their company.  
Peter smiled at the bits they shared from before the war, too. The first time Bucky got Steve hammered drunk. The time Steve had put salt in the sugar bowl as revenge. The old diner with the waitress who wore purple lipstick. The old man with a beard down to his knees who lived in the junkyard with half a dozen stray dogs. Bucky’s sister’s indiscriminate love for gambling, especially when it came to cards.  
Peter saw tears well in Steve’s eyes when Bucky lit on the subject of Steve’s mother Sarah. Her compassion and tenderness and the fly swatter she used to unapologetically whack his hand when he went for cookies before dinner or cursed at a radio program. The Italian eatery where they got free meals for helping with the dishes and dumping trash. The hidden nook in the school library where they stashed notes from dames and passed messages back and forth. Bucky’s endless pranks on the poor Sisters at the cathedral.  
Whenever they prompted Peter to add to the pile, Peter shook his head.  
Steve shared a little bit about his father and how he smelled of pipe tobacco and sawdust; of sitting on his knee and learning to follow along while Joseph read the morning paper. Of how the factories had worn him down like gear. Steve shared his pa’s passion for poetry and songs from the motherland. And the pub. Peter got the feeling that there was more sadness in that story than Steve let on.  
The conversation started to get solemn when the desserts came out—pumpkin bread, apple pie, and lemon tarts—and Steve topped off the drinks.  
The cemetery where Steve’s parents had been buried had vanished, the graves either covered up or transported to another plot. Steve had yet to find them. The burial land allotted to immigrants back them was unkempt, unfenced, and dry. There had been no mortician and no records keeper for the funerals. Just a sympathetic priest with ties to the hospital where Steve’s mother worked in the tuberculosis ward until the sickness took her too. Cremation had been abominable to the Catholic church. Had that been different, Steve would have rather seen their ashes stored in urns in a mortuary. But all things considered, Steve held firmly to the belief that the body was of no consequence—just a vessel for the spirit, both of which were free to dance together elsewhere now.  
Bucky knew where his family lay, but could not bring himself to visit yet. Or to embark on finding living relatives, for that matter. Peter also noticed that Bucky left out any and all references to his time as Hydra’s walking gun.  
The whole graveyard subject seemed a flint to Bucky’s temper, so he silently excused himself for a cigarette on the balcony. Meanwhile, Peter helped Steve with the dishes and shoveled leftovers into Tupperware.  
By the time Bucky returned from his smoke break, Peter had made a conscious decision to open the floodgates of his past. Surrounded by candles and the solid presence of the two super soldiers, Peter shared with Rogers and Barnes the story of his parents and his father’s part in Oscorp’s climb to power as well as its downfall. Their courage and heroism and his guilt about detesting them for so long because he could not put reason to his abandonment. Peter talked about the Thai food restaurant he used to frequent with Aunt May. Told them about his friends from the decathlon team. His voice broke when he mentioned Uncle Ben, but he managed to relay the truth of his murder, and how he still blamed himself for it. He told them about Uncle Ben’s wisdom. About Aunt May’s endless patience and unfailing grace.  
And finally, he confessed how desperately he wanted to make all of them proud—to right wrongs in his father’s memory, to correctly shoulder the responsibility he had been given to honor Uncle Ben.  
Slowly, giving dignity but not pity to the action, Steve reached over and curled his hand around Peter’s. He squeezed. Smiled softly.  
Peter noticed Bucky’s eyes thaw from forest pines to tropical palms. Twice in less than twenty-four hours, the man looked at him—really looked at him. Bucky studied Peter him with the intensity of a chemist and none of the jovial condescension so ubiquitous in his greens when Peter had first walked in. Peter could only hold his gaze for a heartbeat.  
None of them spoke for a few moments, listening instead to the crackle of flames and the hum of the music. Neither Steve nor Bucky offered advice or condescension, only quiet comfort and the concrete truth that they had not only listened to, but heard his pain. And they were willing to share it with him.  
They spent the next hour and a half playing a couple games of cards and charades. Bucky prodded Steve relentlessly until he convinced him to sing a few bars of a blessing from the Emerald Isle. This led into a round of karaoke that put them in hysterics. Especially when Peter did his best MJ impersonation of Beat It.  
“Half past midnight, Steve. Let’s go.” Bucky tossed his empty beer in the trash can as he left the den: destination, bedroom.  
Peter blinked and checked the time. Bucky wasn’t lying. Abruptly recalling what they were half an hour late for, he flushed hotly and fished his boots out from under the coffee table.  
“You don’t have to go, Peter,” Steve assured him. “It’s your house too. Help yourself to anything. Uh—maybe watch some TV? I know they’re having Halloween marathons on—”  
“Steven. Move your ass!”  
With an apologetic smile, Steve stood up and followed Bucky. Peter watched him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut is coming in the next chapter. This one got too god damn long that I had to split them. Expect the steam in the next few days if not this evening.


	6. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the best summary is no summary at all.  
> But, like. Put that as the summary.

A thousand things sprang to mind only to tangle up in Peter’s throat. He couldn’t get a full breath. Peter opened his mouth to say something, anything, to the figure departing down the hall, but was cut short by the bedroom door shutting. The abrupt ending had him reeling.  
Apart from the melancholy music coming from the stereo, the apartment felt suddenly vacuous. No words. No whispers. Just sighs of fabric, the buzz of zippers, and the groan of bedsprings.  
Bombarded by emotions he couldn’t balance properly, Peter juggled the urge to laugh. To cry. To stay. To leave. To curl up in bed with a bottle and wallow in his misplaced hope and foolishness.  
Who was he kidding? Steve and Bucky were men; seasoned warriors with years of history and love between them. What had been Peter’s goal in all this? In coming tonight? What did he think would occur? Had Peter honestly sought to insert himself into a relationship that had not only stood the test of time, but brainwashing and death and betrayal and failure, too? Where could he possibly fit? He synced with their bond as much as his costume belonged at a Samhain celebration.  
Had he overthought this? Underthought it? It wasn’t as though Bucky had been asking him on a date. He hadn’t expected anything. Not exactly. Had he?  
Peter pressed his back into the couch as images came unbidden to his addled brain.  
Steve kneeling on the carpet to help with Peter’s boots—a gesture so simple and innocent turned unconsciously sensuous and sinful.  
Smoke curling out of Bucky’s lips.  
The squeeze of Steve’s hand.  
The weight of Bucky’s arm.  
Steve’s honest smile.  
The way Bucky looked at Peter. Into Peter.  
The safety in Steve’s eyes.  
The danger in Bucky’s grin and very definition.  
The breadth of their shoulders. The timbre of their voices.  
It had been so easy until these last few weeks: living with Barnes and Rogers.  
Peter’s infatuation had to be some convoluted sort of admiration because of their status and experience. Their size and influence.  
What had Molly asked him earlier—just before he left?  
Did Peter want to be them? Or be with them?  
And it had to be them, Peter realized. No matter how different his flavors of attraction for Steve and Bucky, Barnes and Rogers were a package deal.  
Peter shut his eyes and swallowed hard. He needed to get out of here before his skull exploded. Molly’s party would be going strong until the morning hours. He couldn’t sit in the apartment when he knew what was going on in the next room. Couldn’t turn on some horror flick while his house mates would be screaming for completely different reasons. They deserved privacy. Not to mention that Bucky would verily eviscerate Peter if he accidentally interrupted anything a second time…  
Catching a cab at this hour would be hell. He would bike. Peter stuffed his feet back into his boots and took his hat and gloves off the end table. He stood up, grabbed his keys from the bookshelf, and made for the door.  
“Kid!”  
Peter froze when Bucky’s voice boomed from the bedroom.  
“Come in here.”  
The world went out from under his feet.  
“What the hell are you doing?” Peter heard Steve hiss, his voice laced with uncharacteristic panic and a cockeyed hint of the pleasure he had to suddenly deny himself.  
Peter’s guts dropped and roiled.  
“Now, Peter.”  
“James, what the—!” A gasping sound. The murmurs of a struggle.  
Peter stared at the deadbolt as his sanity unraveled. It came upon him like a shadow, the creeping kind that stretched as the sun set until it shrouded the whole of the world. His feet moved without his approval, as though he had been programed to obey that voice. He paused at the bedroom door.  
/I’ll fix you up with somethin’ good, Peter. Get you in real close with him. So long as you’re ready to . . . do something good for me when I ask./  
What had he agreed to last night?  
/Be good./  
What would he see if he stepped inside?  
/I can only tolerate so many of your bedtime fantasies. /  
What would happen if he said no?  
/I can’t promise much, but I can promise that./  
Was Steve in danger? Bucky wouldn’t harm him. Wouldn’t hurt him. Right?  
/Be good./  
“Kid. I won’t fucking tell you again.”  
Peter’s blood drummed in his ears. His shadow had to be visible under the door. The light coming from the room was dim—probably a bedside lamp. Instinct insisted he run. But he reached out, grasped the bedroom door handle, and twisted. Clothes were strewn across the floor.  
Bucky had Steve on his back in bed, Bucky’s bionic fingers a vice around Steve’s wrists. Peter followed the road of Steve’s naked body—down his rolling arms and sculpted chest. A pillow lay under the small of Steve’s back. His body was bent in such a way that breaking the hold would take every ounce of the strength in his core. Radiating tyrannical authority, Bucky was kneeling between Steve’s legs. Bucky had the meat of Steve’s thigh in his flesh hand. Guilt lanced through Peter as he stared at the curve of Steve’s ass and the slope of Bucky’s thick legs. What he could see of Steve's erection was as impressive as the rest of him. Peter whipped his attention to Bucky’s face. The man stared him down like a mountain cat with no intention of conceding his kill. Peter couldn’t put a name to what he needed to see next, but he thought he might find it in Steve’s face. When he looked, all he found was a profile. Steve’s wide eyes were fixed on Bucky. The dim light betrayed a blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.  
It wasn’t fear that shown in his expression. If nothing else, Peter assured himself that the day Steve Rogers was afraid, Peter would know it at first sight. It was surprise. Shock. Confusion. Maybe some of the red in his skin could be a tide of rising anger, too. But underneath that? Acceptance. Respect. Docility. They were the surging ocean and the steadfast shore. The roaring wind and the mountain peak. The raging river and the boulder in the bend. The wild fire and the gentle rain. War and peace perfectly balanced. Chaos and harmony hand in hand.  
Heartbeats passed. Steve still didn’t look at Peter. Only at Bucky.  
Peter knew that hold. He had seen Bucky use it on Steve before during a sparring session at the compound. Wonderful. He’d never be able to train without an instant boner again.  
“Magnificent, isn’t he?” Bucky declared, his smile decidedly menacing. “You’d be amazed how sensitive he is.”  
Steve’s started to struggle. “Christ. James—”  
Bucky’s eyes lit on Steve as he thrust his hips forward. “Shut it. I’ve got a bargain to keep.”  
After a hiss of breath through his teeth and a ragged groan in his throat, Steve sealed his lips and stilled. Peter felt the damning of his own soul as Steve turned his head away from Peter fully. Bucky rolled his hips. Steve tensed again, but his fists uncurled as he moaned. Really moaned. It went straight to Peter’s crotch.  
“There we go. There’s the spot.”  
Peter swayed. Oh god. Bucky was inside him. Fucking him. Right there. Three paces from Peter. His skin felt too tight—stretched thin over a body that contained desire of monstrous proportions. The beauty. The vulnerability. How could this be better than he had let himself imagine?  
Bucky rolled his hips in a steady, slow rhythm. The strain behind the sounds Steve made confirmed Peter’s suspicions about him trying to mask the effects. Peter had predicted Bucky topping strictly based off his overbearing demeanor. But this felt more savage, more ritualistic—like a conquering—than a mere choice of position. There was a sharpness to the light in Bucky’s eyes. The corner of his lip. The glint on his arm.  
“In Wakanda, they called me Wolf. You wanna know what Steve’s ma used to call him?”  
Peter, realizing Bucky was talking to him this time, watched Steve’s body shiver and shudder.  
“Lamb.”  
Peter put all his effort into swallowing. Bucky used his flesh hand to grab Steve's chin.  
“But I guess it depends on the circumstance. He can be a lion, too. What will you be, I wonder?”  
Peter’s insides went molten. Vocalizing an answer beyond some poor attempt at English was impossible.  
“If I work him hard enough, I can get him to go into subspace. You know what that is?”  
Peter shook his head dumbly.  
Bucky rolled his eyes, but the action looked less acerbic than normal due to the plumbing job he was doing on Steve.  
“I thought as much. OK. Here’s what I want you to do. You ready?”  
“I—”  
“I want you to imagine all the great little ways we could fit you into this. Maybe you wanna frame his face with your knees and feel how sweet his lips are while I finger you from behind. Maybe you want to face me and slide into his throat. Maybe you want to lean over and let me put my hand in your pretty hair and push you down to suck on him.”  
“Oh, god . . . “  
“Maybe you wanna mount him. Feel him move in you every time I push into him. You could kiss him. Get him panting. Have his hands all over you.”  
Peter’s knees felt boneless. Sweat broke on his forehead. Dripped down his neck.  
“Or maybe you’re a greedy thing and want us both in you, our cocks grinding together while we fill you up. Stretch you wide.”  
Steve's expressions changed. His breathing picked up. Steve met Peter's eyes for a brief moment. Peter endured a full body shiver in the sweltering air. He panted.  
“Yeah. You’ll get all that shit. But not tonight. Tonight, he’s mine. So you’re gonna be a good boy, head back to your room, undress, lay in bed, and run through those positions with your cock in your hand until you come. Understood?”  
Smally, “Yes.”  
Bucky glared. “Yes, what?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. Now get the fuck out.”

Peter was at full mast before he hit his mattress. He couldn't logic through the consequences of anything. Couldn't see beyond the immediate need to slake his lust. Priority number one. He writhed at the touch. The friction. After fully unleashing his mind, he probably lasted less than two minutes before the first blinding orgasm wrecked him. He didn't stop there. Another five minutes shoved him over the edge a second time. Ten more and his legs trembled and cramped after a third round. His hair clung to his forehead. Peter tried to catch his breath.  
“How was that?” Bucky's blurry figure came into focus. He was leaning against Peter's doorjam, his charcoal jeans unbuttoned around his hips.  
Panting, Peter couldn’t answer. All he could do was swallow and ride the afterglow.  
“That good, huh?”  
No, Peter thought. Better.  
“I almost bailed. Thought it was just a joke to you.” His voice was hoarse. Peter would have grabbed himself some water had he any confidence in his legs.  
“Naw. I’m not much of a prankster anymore. I meant what I said.”  
Peter groaned and came up on one elbow. He let his thoughts wander back over the last half hour and the look in Steve's eyes. Guilt pricked him. Steve hadn't granted permission for any of this. Had Peter participated in something even more unholy than he anticipated?  
He blushed hotly. “Where’s—?”  
“He’s asleep. Had to lay into him pretty hard to keep him down after your visit. Guy can take a pounding, but it puts him out like a light. You should get some kip too. We’ll catch Steve up and lay ground rules tomorrow. You're welcome.” Bucky righted himself, winked, and swaggered back toward his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .  
>  -awkward smile.;  
> I love me some sunny-side-up-Steve who also happens to be a deviant sexual masochist mostly because that's what Bucky needs him to be.  
> I'm sure some of this falls into the dubious consent realm. But frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn.  
> I've always written Stucky with an unspoken understanding of 1. Bucky's need to dominate/his hatred of submission. 2. Steve's need to feel small. 3. Steve's desperation to cede control. 4. Their fucked up ways of dealing with guilt, repression, and responsibility. 5. Durable Steve is durable. 6. Bucky takes what he wants and gives no fucks. 7. Troubled sleep is soothed with sex. 8. You're not my dad.  
> So.  
> Yeah.  
> I need to read this over tomorrow morning and amend mistakes. But I'm too tired right now.  
> Putting Peter in the mix has been a challenge that I'm really enjoying. Both Bucky and Steve are hyper vigilant and protective. Steve's energy is more soothing warmth while Bucky's is cold and unforgiving. Peter brings a fun, curious component to the table. Much cute.  
> More to come! :D Hope you enjoyed.


	7. The Bathroom Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their arrangement out in the open, Peter Parker is privately reintroduced to Steve Rogers and James Barnes to find that who the world assumed them to be is no where near as erogenous as the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my public trash can! :D

Peter groaned and squeezed his eyes shut tighter when his bedroom light flared to life.  
“Get up, shortstack,” Bucky’s baritone demanded.  
Groggy, maybe even incoherent, Peter sat up. He felt… good. Really good. Floaty, even. Something alluded him. Something he was supposed to remember. It was Sunday.  
“Church?” He blinked as Bucky came into focus.  
Bucky smirked with all the tenderness of a blood-scenting shark. “We’ll call it that. Be in the shower in fifteen.”  
Peter frowned as Bucky swaggered off. “Mr. Bar—Bucky. Hang on a sec! What do you—?” He gave up calling after him. Peter sat up, cracked his neck, and rubbed his right shoulder. Not hungover, but he was a bit sore. Had he worked out the day before?  
The bed shifted. Peter’s attention snapped up.  
Steve, with those unassuming balmy blues, sat on the edge of his bed, offering him one of two mugs of coffee. Steve smiled. Sheepishly.  
/Everything/ came roaring back.  
Peter froze. Stared at him, sensing images and sensations so wild that his cock would have hardened had it not been for the panic.  
Steve seemed to shrink. His smile wavered.  
“Not a…” Steve swallowed. God should have damned Peter, if he hadn’t already, for the dash of pain in Steve’s face. “Not a coffee guy?”  
Pain. And embarrassment. And... uncertainty. Steve could have been a different person entirely. And Peter, /Peter/, had made him feel that way.  
“N—no," Peter corrected frantically. "Of course. I am, I mean. Into coffee. Thank you.” He took the mug clumsily and ended up with a few hot droplets on his hand. Peter hissed. He swapped the mug to the other hand and went for a tissue to wipe it off. But Steve caught his wrist. Slowly, but not slow enough that Peter could react with anything but awe, Steve pulled Peter’s hand back to him. Bowed his head.  
Steve: a man twice Peter’s size and five times his senior.  
Peter held his breath as he watched the lashes that fanned out from Steve’s downcast eyes… like he had last night. Those lips that barked cruel orders in battle, but looked so kind. They parted. And Steve tenderly /licked/ the drops off of his hand.  
Peter, slackjawed, stared. Stupidly. He may as well have been a mute.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered lowly, those words warm against Peter’s skin.  
So it wasn’t just Spidey Senses that could raise the hair on his arms.  
Steve sat up. “About last night… I didn’t know what Buck had planned. He didn’t tell me anything.”  
With the caress of Steve’s tongue on loop, Peter could only gawk.  
Steve finally looked up to meet his eyes. “If I had known... Well, I can't really say what I would have done, to be honest. Which is probably why he didn’t.”  
Those sounds Steve had made. The way he writhed beneath the bulk of a slightly meatier man. His legs open for him. Taking it. Another man’s primary weapon sliding in and out of him. Someone so calculating in war suddenly so… vulnerable. A man who had surrendered. And savoring every minute that supremacy was stripped from him.  
There was no way it could be… /taken/ from Steve. Not by anyone but Bucky.  
Peter hadn’t appreciated the power Bucky possessed until then. Steve gave that to him—something no other man could have. Dominion over Captain America.  
A less insightful thought followed: The memory of how thick and heavy Rogers's cock looked.  
Peter swallowed hard and averted his eyes. Remembering the coffee, he busied himself with three large gulps.  
“I uh… It’s my fault, Steve. I made it pretty awkward. Should have talked to you myself. Kind of a big chicken, I guess.”  
Peter looked up in time to see Steve really smile at him, the weight of the burden between them eased.  
“You didn’t know what he was doing either. He's... crafty that way. Full disclosure: I’ve never tried anything like this. Not sure how to navigate it all. But I know one thing. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t come to me. Or that you have to stop being yourself. Or that you owe anyone anything. We were close. We’ll be closer. That’s all.”  
Peter could have kicked himself when he blurted, “It is?” Peter fiddled with the coffee mug.  
Steve blushed and squared his massive shoulders. “I uh… I guess we’ll also know each other more intimately. It’s all up to you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable—”  
“I want in.”  
Steve gave a subtle smile, shining primarily through his eyes. Peter clutched his coffee mug in both hands when the man leaned in, came world-alteringly close to his lips, and bypassed them to say something against his ear.  
“Then go ahead and shower. Use our bathroom. Leave the door unlocked.” When he pulled back and they met eyes, Peter saw for the first time a hint of green in those oceans of hope. He was closer to Peter than ever before. An overwhelming urge to kiss him nagged at Peter… until he realized that he would much rather their first liplock come after he had brushed his teeth. Peter nodded.  
It all felt so surreal.  
Steve touched his cheek, squeezed his wrist, and took himself and his coffee out of the room.  
Peter dropped back against the pillows and disheveled sheets, his breath whooshing from him.  
Professor Sullivan’s exam was the farthest thing from his mind.

Peter brushed his teeth while the water warmed. He had never used the master bathroom before. Not since that night he woofed. He left the bathroom door unlocked, opened the glass door to the shower, and stepped under the stream. Hyper vigilant of any new sounds, he began the automatic process of washing and rinsing. He did his hair last. Had to close his eyes while he rinsed the suds off his face.  
Peter didn’t even hear the bathroom door open.  
But he did hear a belt being unbuckled and heavy fabric thudding on the floor. With a swish of the glass panel, Bucky stepped in behind him. Peter watched his mech hand reach around his hip and hold him, preventing him from turning around. Felt the cool kiss of metal against his skin.  
Then he felt another kind of kiss—one warm and against his neck—as Bucky’s body pressed against him from behind. The swell of his chest. Of his thighs. Of his… Oh /god/.  
Peter found himself shaking.  
“Here’s the run down, kid. I give the orders. You follow um. If you do, I treat you good. Real good. If you don’t. Well… Ask Steve sometime.”  
“Sir,” Peter answered, his voice nearly unrecognizable.  
“Put your hands on the wall.”  
Peter did. Bucky tapped the inside of Peter’s arch with his foot. “Spread ’em.”  
Peter gulped and widened his stance. Bucky’ hands began to devour him, coasting over his body as if to feel his every inch. As though… looking for weak points. For cracks in his mortar. For the right place to touch to make him come completely undone.  
“Damn. You got an ass on you.”  
The subsequent smack against Peter’s rear startled him. Bucky took a fistful of flesh and squeezed. Peter inhaled sharply.  
“Anybody ever told you that?”  
“As--as a joke. Sure.”  
Bucky’s hand slid inward, right into the seam of his body. He found his entrance… and tapped.  
“This been used before?” Bucky droned against his ear.  
Peter shivered. The warm water crawling over him didn’t seem to help.  
Bucky rubbed his middle finger against Peter’s hole. Rubbed harder. Pushed.  
Peter knew what was coming. But it still left him panting. And the length he felt hardening against him…  
“Bucky—” Peter’s groin ached.  
“Relax.” Bucky squeezed Peter’s hip with his mech hand, the one that wasn’t fondling him. “Just finger-fuckin’ for now,” Bucky said into his ear. “Gotta get you acclimated. Can’t be breaking a new recruit on his first day, now can I?”  
He popped a digit in. Peter gasped.  
“Atta’boy.” Bucky pushed in and pulled out, knuckle by knuckle, deeper and deeper. “Damn. You’re a fine piece. Tight enough to snap a bone. Not even sure I can fit two fingers in here, let alone a cock.” With his finger in to the knuckle, Peter battled a blush as Bucky began to explore his insides. Dig around. Press. Rub. Stroke. Twist. A jolt zinged through Peter. His erection reached critical mass. It even leaked a drop or two.  
“What—!?”  
He lost the words as Bucky stroked that same spot.  
“Holy shit,” Peter choked out. He dropped his head and his guard. He took a hand from the wall and wrapped it around his erection. He had to get friction or he was sure he’d die.  
Bucky’s hand came down hard against his ass. Hard enough to sting. Possibly leave a mark. Peter hissed.  
“Did I tell you to touch yourself?” Bucky growled.  
Peter whined through his clenched teeth as he shook his head.  
“N—need it. Need to.”  
“I know what you fuckin’ need, baby boy. And only I can give it to you. Better get used to that.”  
“James. Don’t be cruel.” The glass door swished open.  
Like a living Adonis, Steve stepped into the shower, turned the faucet off, and joined them. He stood in front of Peter, who had straightened and removed his hand from the wall.  
“At least… not yet.”  
Peter felt Bucky smile against his ear. “I know you wanna touch him, Pete. Go ahead.”  
Peter met Steve’s eyes. Steve, wearing nothing but that subtly encouraging smile, held them.  
“It’s OK. Put your hands on me.”  
Tentatively, Peter pressed his hand against Steve’s chest. Warm. Swollen. Solid. He splayed his fingers and moved his hand over his torso. Over the indentions of his abs. No sooner had Peter’s experimental touches gone to his navel when Bucky resumed pumping into him. Peter choked his way through a moan. Steve stepped closer and put one big, benevolent hand on the side of Peter’s neck. He slid the other down his body… right onto his--!  
Peter gasped, his air shared more and more with Steve as he leaned in.  
“It’s OK,” Steve assured again, his lips a breath away, as his long fingers wrapped around Peter’s erection.  
Peter groaned and bit his fingertips into Steve’s chest. Steve started stroking him. Slow and steady, up and down his aching shaft. Throbbing for it, Peter moaned... which became more of a cry when, from behind him, Bucky bit against the open side of his neck. Started sucking. Peter thrummed from it.  
Peter went boneless. And at that moment, Steve Rogers kissed him. All soft lips with a firm purpose. While Peter had kissed his fair share of people, he had never kissed someone who had known what they were doing. Not like Steve did. Coaxing his mouth open. Introducing his tongue. He tasted like coffee and spearmint.  
Any merit in all that vanilla virgin bullshit disintegrated. Peter felt himself blush as he realized the secrets he’d have to keep from the team. What he would have to pretend not to know. Especially with Stark.  
Maybe that bit about the smooch on the escalator that Peter had overheard wasn’t bad because Steve was inexperienced. Maybe it was bad because he hadn’t wanted it.  
Peter put an arm around Steve’s thick neck and carded his fingers through the clay-blonde hair at his nape. He put the other hand on Bucky’s hip. Steve’s deft hand was a sweet mercy in comparison to Bucky’ finger-thrusts. But there was intense pleasure in them too. Bucky added a second finger. Peter moaned in desperation. It didn't hurt. And he had Bucky to thank for that.  
Peter wondered if he should offer to work Bucky. Wondered if Bucky was already working himself. Peter craved the potential to impress him—to excite or entice such a formidable man. Steve was kind. Bucky was too… but /differently/. Kind in a way with apologies not included. Bold. Honest. Forthcoming. The edges of his swarthy personality were blunt, not tempered like Steve’s.  
Plus. He had a metal arm. And that was… beyond cool.  
Barnes was a walking battering ram. What could Peter offer that he would need?  
The question died on Steve’s lips as Peter succumbed to the pleasure of his touch. It happened before Peter could reign it in. He came in Steve’s hand. On Bucky’s fingers. Between two mountains of men he so admired and now… deeply lusted for. The world had feathered edges and blurry lines. Peter found himself panting against Steve’s mouth, their kiss technically broken, but his lips not the least bit lonely.  
Steve touched his nose to Peter’s as though to sooth him. Steve slowed his strokes on Peter's cock until he'd followed the feeling to its end.  
“Did pretty damn good, kid.” Another smack from Bucky to Peter’s rear had him fully alert. Bucky pulled his fingers out of Peter, the sensation igniting fire in Peter’s face. “Now. You’re gonna step aside and get your first lesson.”  
Peter blinked. The calm of Steve’s gaze kept him from panicking, thinking he might have done something wrong. Steve pecked his lips one more time and let his hand fall from Peter’s neck. Peter moved on somewhat wobbly legs to stand against the tiled shower wall, leaving Steve and Bucky to face each other. Bucky glanced down at his own erection. An erection, Peter realized, that was far from satisfied.  
“Pay attention, Peter,” Bucky demanded, his forest eyes pinning Steve like a butterfly to a board. “You’ll be practicing what you learn... on /him/.”  
Peter frowned, his sex addled mind still muddy. He wasn’t quite able to follow until Steve stepped forward. Knelt at Bucky’s feet.  
And Peter Parker watched Captain America suck dick like it was his true calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean... honestly, all that comes to mind is the fiery elmo praising satan gif
> 
> Hope all enjoyed. Your feedback gives me life. If anything is amiss, please point it out with a flaming finger.  
> I'm not sure if I set out with the intention of converting people to the ship, but I'm proud that's one of the results.  
> Thank you for reading, folks.  
> The next chapter will come swiftly. "Just like Peter." [Nick is an asshole.]  
> \- Harper


	8. The Blowjob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets The Talk. And then a taste.

Steve took his time. Oh, how he took his time, those plump pink lips wrapped around—  
Back and forth. Slow and deep.  
Peter still couldn’t exactly believe what he was seeing. But he watched with avid interest. Steve’s sharp jaw and defined features seemed softer in the warmly lit bathroom than they did under the unfiltered sunshine. Steve had his big hands on Bucky’s heavy thighs. From this vantage point, Peter put full stock into the idea that not even Steve could wrap both hands around Bucky’s thigh and touch his fingertips together on the other side.  
Sensing attention on him, Peter jerked his eyes up to find Bucky leering into his face.  
“That’s right, kid. Take a good, long look.” Bucky slid his long metal fingers into Steve’s hair, took a fistful, and held his head steady as he rocked in and out of Steve’s mouth. A dozen thrusts later, he pushed in until Steve’s nose pressed against his abdomen. Let his throat work him. If Steve was an Adonis, Bucky was a Spartan with the pride of Athens at his fingertips. On his cock.  
Peter hadn’t noticed he was panting until Bucky chuckled. And it wasn’t exactly a kind sound.  
“Pretty, isn’t it?”  
A noise came from Steve—something like a groan. Something... uncomfortable. Peter realized Bucky still had his cock lodged in Steve’s throat. His metal arm recalibrated. Peter watched Steve’s fingertips curl, denting Bucky’s muscular flesh. Watched him flush.  
Peter’s arousal began to turn sour as Steve’s blush darkened.  
“W—wait. Don’t. He—” Peter stepped forward, as if he could do something. /Should/ do something.  
Bucky shoved Peter back against the wall with his flesh hand at his throat.  
“No,” Bucky said.  
“But—!”  
Bucky’s broad thumb coasted over Peter’s bottom lip. Peter froze.  
“There’s something you need to understand, Peter. What Steve and I have isn’t always pretty. Believe me when I say that, if you stick this out, you’ll see him bleed more than you’d ever see on a battlefield. You’ll see him wrecked and ruined. See him beg. See me give it to him.”  
Peter searched Bucky’s face.  
“I do it because I need it. And even moreso, because he does.” With a shift of his hips, Bucky pulled his now flaccid cock out of Steve’s throat, but Bucky held fast to his blond hair. Peter forgot how to breathe as Steve coughed in gulps of air. Cum dripped from his lips.  
“Look at me,” Bucky demanded.  
Peter brought his attention back to Bucky's face.  
“You’re going to start seeing things that you might not understand yet. There will be moments when he may not seem to want my brutality when I give it to him. You’ll hear me insult him. See me punish him. Everything we do, everything we have ever done, occurs within the open discourse and strict constraints of... us. I would never hurt him beyond what he needs.” The mech arm whirred.  
Peter glanced down to find Steve nuzzling into Bucky’s hand.  
“So hear me when I say, Queens, that if you ever, and I mean ever, try to interfere again… I’ll flay you alive.”  
Wide eyed, Peter’s insides liquefied. He could have pissed himself. He would have slid down the wall if Bucky hadn’t been holding him upright.  
“Good boy.” Bucky, who seemed appeased, leaned in across the short distance between and kissed Peter. Whiskey and cigarettes enveloped Peter’s senses. In addition, a strange, unspoken certainty settled into his chest. So long as Peter remembered his place, trusted Bucky in the dominant role he had maintained for Lord knew how long, Peter would be safe.  
From everything. From anything.  
Bucky kissed him firmly—open mouthed, invasive, and unassailable. Exploring. Claiming. Unapologetically mapping out the inside of Peter with his bold tongue, as though he could get a sense for what it might feel like were Peter down in Steve’s position. But his grip on Peter’s throat was gentle.  
The terror of seconds ago dissipated.  
“Maybe we should start talking about what /you/ need,” Bucky said at last, voice gravelly.  
Peter shivered through a breath. “I don’t know.”  
“You don’t know what?”  
“W-what I need.”  
Bucky hmmed against his lips. “Then you’ll trust me to figure it out. To pull and pick you apart until I understand you. Until I can put you back together.”  
Entranced, Peter nodded.  
“You’re gonna stay in my room for the next three nights. You go to bed when I tell you. You undress when I tell you. You open those pretty legs when I tell you.” He grinned.  
Peter gulped. Bucky glided his rough thumb over his lips again.  
“Then you can stay with Steve. Let him hold you. Baby you. Say all that sweet shit you’ll never hear out of me. Love you up until every frayed inch of you is smoothed back into place. In a week, we’re gonna do this again. And I’ll fuck you both until you’ve got no doubt who you belong to, Peter Parker.”  
Peter heard Steve stand up. Noticed his shadow fall over the light.  
“Now. Be a good boy, get on those knees, and put your mouth on his cock. Try not to choke. I’m gonna watch. And enjoy every second.”  
Bucky backed off, taking two swaggering steps away to cross his brawny arms and shoulder the wall. He smirked expectantly.  
Peter shuddered. Looked up into Steve’s face. The glossy trail of cum was gone. Steve’s bright eyes were dusky, but no less comforting.  
“Don’t be nervous,” Steve whispered lowly. “I’m about to burst just lookin’ at you.”  
It was so hard… So hard to remember that he had just seen this man kneeling with a dick pumping jizz down his throat.  
How? How could Steve be so debauched and still emerge so… confident? Unruffled?  
Steve didn’t try to kiss him, but Peter thought that might be because it could exacerbate Peter’s anxiety.  
Peter had never sucked cock before… let alone tasted cum on another man’s lips. Steve must have known that.  
/I want in,/ Peter had said. A moment to reevaluate told him he felt no less certain now than he did earlier. So he sank to his knees, coming face to face with Steve’s impressive erection. He didn’t mean to stare. He just didn’t know where to start. Peter put his hand on Steve’s thigh, reached up with the other, and wrapped his fingers around the base of Rogers’ cock. Steve sucked in a breath. Peter pulled to angle him down. He opened his mouth. Wrapped his lips around the head. Peter started sucking lightly, testing.  
Steve braced his hand against the wall. Loosed a groan.  
Peter slipped another hot inch into his mouth. Soft at the head and rock solid farther down. His own cock felt kind of like this.  
“Oh, god—” Steve whispered. Every muscle across Steve’s body seemed to coil with effort not to act on impulse. To pound away into the wet warmth Peter offered him.  
Excitement volted through Peter. He was causing Steve to make those sounds.  
There was no way Peter could master something this size on the first try. He began to work the hand at the base of Steve’s cock back and forth while he sucked.  
A moan similar to the one he had heard last night traveled down to him. Peter felt Steve glide his big hand into his hair. But he didn’t grip. Just kept his hand on him. Peter felt Steve start a restrained roll of his hips, easing in just a little deeper to meet the bobbing of Peter’s head. The strokes of his hand.  
“That’s it,” Bucky approved. “Get some good practice in, Queens.”  
Peter blushed. Steve moaned. Peter felt Steve's ending build. Knew it was coming even before Steve said through gritted teeth, “Pete. I’m gonna—”  
Peter could have pulled away. Had plenty of time to. Could have let Steve unload on his chest. On the wall. Maybe on his face. But… Peter avowed that he wanted to taste it. To see what it was like. Seconds later, Steve shot off into his mouth. Warm. Salty. Viscus. It didn’t taste like Steve’s cock. There was another flavor that Peter was unfamiliar with. He didn’t necessarily… like it. But it didn’t put him off either. The sight of Steve panting above him, his forehead against the shower wall, was too rewarding. That alone? That could make Peter learn to love it.  
Peter turned his head to the side and spat the mouthful down the drain.  
“Thank him,” Bucky commanded. It took Peter a second to realize that Bucky was talking to Peter.  
Peter lifted his eyes to Steve’s face. “Thank you.”  
Steve blushed. Smiled through his eyes.  
Bucky’s gaze burned into Steve. “Kiss him. Thoroughly. Like you want to taste every trace left in his mouth.”  
Steve knelt, his heavy thighs open and his strong knees on either side of Peter’s, cupped Peter’s face, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fml--what am i even doing anymore.  
> i'm setting myself up to write nothing but smut scenes for the next fucking week their time.  
> which is like a month rl time.  
> here i come, hell.  
> don't wait up for me.


	9. The Basics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't even know what i'm doing anymore

They filed out of the shower after actually washing. Steve playfully, but not so playfully that Peter couldn’t see the tenderness in the action, ruffled up Peter’s hair with a hand towel. It dried his hair enough not to drip in his eyes.  
Peter’s nerves leaped into a frenzy whenever he caught Bucky staring at him the way Peter imagined a jungle cat might eye a rabbit. Heck, Peter had probably looked at a cheeseburger that way a time or two. He felt exposed. Totally naked, even after he had put his ball shorts on. If he was going to spend the next three nights constantly under that sort of scrutiny, under that kind of carnivore, he needed a safety blanket.  
When the guys headed for the kitchen to resume their nightly routine, Peter slipped into Steve’s room. That settled it. He’d take the shirt Steve let him borrow the night he was a complete dumbass. Steve probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone. Peter knew in his gut Steve wouldn’t mind—would happily fork it over. But Peter was too embarrassed to ask. Seemed like a sissy move.  
So was stealing it. But hey. There he was.  
Peter cracked open his closet door and peaked inside, all of Steve’s shirts neatly hung and organized by type. He carefully, quietly, leafed through them. Peter smiled to himself as he pushed aside a gray thermal to look at the graphic design on one of his button ups. Suddenly, he heard someone coming up the hall. Peter ducked into Steve’s closet and pulled the door so it was nearly latched, able to catch glimpses through the wooden shutters in the door.  
Steve walked into his room, turned to the dresser, and rifled through a drawer until he pulled out…  
Peter suppressed a groan as Steve fisted the Dodgers shirt, stepped away from the dresser, and made to put it on. Peter watched his back muscles flex, and the shadows beneath them ebb and flow beneath the dim light. But then Steve paused, as if he had heard something. Peter held his breath. Steve turned back to the doorway. Peter followed his gaze to find Bucky standing there, watching him.  
“Baby?” Steve asked softly.  
Bucky just stared, the air between them thickening to a heavy silence. Peter watched Steve’s body shift from a ‘neutral curious’ to high alert, his spine straightening, his stance rigid.  
Bucky stepped into the room and shut them door with enough force to rattle the only picture on the wall. A framed poster of Bane Ruth.  
“James. This whole thing was your idea.”  
“Face the bed.”  
“Baby—”  
“Face. The fucking. Bed.”  
Peter pressed his hand over his mouth, his eyes widening.  
Steve, with some reluctance, did as he was told.  
Confused, his anxiety escalating, Peter watched Bucky approach until he stood directly behind Steve. Bucky kissed the back of his neck. Put his hands on his torso. Pushed his pants down.  
“You’re not bein’ punished. Just got jealous.”  
Peter watched Bucky unzip his jeans. Fish out his--  
“Not sure I can go three days without this.” Peter jumped a bit at the subsequent smack against Steve’s ass. Bucky took a handful and squeezed, moving his lips to the side of Steve’s neck. Steve shivered as he tilted his head and exposed more of his neck. The way Bucky’s hands played over his body suggested such possessiveness.  
“Then take it,” Steve whispered, his voice hot and husky and nothing like the gentle baritone he normally used. “Always been yours.”  
“Bend over. Show me.” Bucky continued, but in Russian, some phrase Peter couldn’t hope to decode.  
Steve responded in the same language and put his hands on the bed.  
Peter looked away, his face on fire.  
He shouldn’t be in here. Shouldn’t be watching this. He tried to think of anything to keep himself from getting hard.  
Term papers. Chugging sour milk. Broccoli.  
But then the slap of flesh on flesh busted his concentration. Peter bit down hard into his lip as he heard Steve moan, a hint of pain tucked away somewhere in the sound. They were doing this dry? Jesus Christ.  
Just one look wouldn’t hurt. He was already here. Peter should know what to expect for the next few nights anyway.  
He’d beg for lube if he had to. He didn’t care if that was a sissy move.  
Peter’s insides went molten when he peered through the shutters again. Bucky had Steve pressed against the mattress, cheek to the comforter, with his pants around his ankles and Bucky’s mech hand pinning one of Steve’s arms behind his back as Bucky pounded into him.  
Steve whispered in Russian. It sounded like a plea. Or maybe encouragement?  
Bucky smiled savagely, seized him by the hair, and yanked his head up a bit.  
“That’s it, slut.” Another smattering of Russian followed. The thrusts escalated in brutality. Steve actually pressed his fist to his mouth to muffle his moans, Peter suspected, for Peter’s sake.  
Slut? Peter balked. Bucky actually got away with calling him that? Was that part of their dynamic?  
A dozen more thrusts and then Bucky shoved in completely. Held himself there. He groaned, unloading with subtle jerks of his hips. Bucky let go of Steve’s hair and his arm. Peter noticed budding bruises that would probably heal before Steve could get his pants back on. Catching his breath, Bucky bent forward, his mech hand braced on the mattress just above Steve’s shoulder.  
“Feel better?” Steve panted.  
Bucky chuckled. “A little.” He kissed Steve’s shoulder.  
“Pasta’s gonna boil over if I don’t get back out there,” Steve warned, a playful edge to his voice.  
“Kid will get it.”  
Peter cringed.  
Steve shifted, but Bucky didn’t let him up.  
“How the hell are you still hard?”  
“You just do it for me.” Bucky smacked Steve’s ass. "I love you, Steven."  
"You better. The amount of solid dick I take from you could knight me." He chuckled. Found and squeezed Bucky's hand. "I love you too, baby."  
James resumed thrusting, reducing Steve to a mess of moans. Peter nearly died of arousal, agonizingly hard, but determined not to jack off. If he got any spunk on Steve’s clothes, he’d be screwed. And Peter wasn’t exactly quiet when it came to his own pleasure, either.  
Going miraculously unseen and unsuspected, Peter didn’t make it out of that closet for another thirty minutes. By then, all the water had boiled out of the pot, and the pasta had turned into a burned tangle of rigid noodles.  
They had sandwiches.  
Guilt kept Peter from meeting their eyes as much as usual. He hoped they assumed it was due to his anticipation, or anxiety more aptly, about tonight.  
“Alright, guys. I gotta hit the sack,” Steve said just after 10. “I’m beat.”  
In more ways than one, Peter added to himself.  
Steve kissed Bucky with a smile. Then he came to Peter, who sat in the armchair, and knelt down.  
“It’ll be OK, Pete. He’s really just a big teddy bear on the inside.”  
Bucky choked on a swig and laughed around the lip of his beer.  
Steve put his hand on Peter’s cheek, kissed his forehead, nose, and finally, his lips, where he lingered. Peter felt his bones turn to jelly. By the time he was coherent enough to open his eyes, Steve was turning down the hall.  
“Night,” Peter whispered. Steve’s door clicked shut.  
The room fell silent, aside from the dialogue droning from the television. Sunday night football.  
Peter could feel Bucky’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare to look, too afraid Bucky would see straight into his soul and know exactly what he had seen. A shadow moved in front of him.  
Peter followed the broad, beefy line of Bucky’s body up to his face. Bucky took his chin in his flesh hand.  
“I’m gonna go for a smoke. By the time I come back, you better be undressed.” Bucky dropped his hand and, with a devlish wink, swaggered toward the balcony.  
They were gonna do this out here?! The man was insatiable. A god damn sex tank.  
Peter panicked. He turned to be sure Bucky couldn’t see and sent a 911 message to Molly.  
~It’s about to happen and I’m freaking out.  
~What is?  
~-_- You know  
She sent him three question marks. He rolled his eyes and punched in very a specific set of emojis.  
~AHHH!!!!!!!!!  
Peter could practically hear her shrilling with excitement.  
~Oh my god with both of them?  
~No. Just one.  
~Easing you into it huh?  
~Mol, you should see this guy. He’s huge. And scary. Like really scary.  
~SEND PICS GDI  
~idk if I should do this  
~Don’t you dare chicken out now! You want this. You told me yourself! GO FOR IT! FIGHT. WIN. Get your rocks off, for god’s sake. You’re more pent up than caged dog.  
Peter gulped.  
The door sighed open.  
“The fuck did I say, kid?”  
Peter shoved his phone into a space between the cushions. “Sorry.”  
Bucky folded his arms, planted his feet, and stared. “Strip.”  
Peter stood on shaky legs and slowly started to peel off his clothing. Bucky’s eyes never left his body—appraising. Devouring.  
“Aren’t you gonna—?” Peter whispered self consciously as he stepped out of his shorts.  
Bucky looked wickedly amused as he unfolded his arms, thumbed open his jeans, tugged down his zipper, and pulled out his half-hard cock.  
“All I need, right?”  
Peter gulped again.  
Bucky sat down on the sofa and spread his knees. “Do me like you did Steve.”  
Peter licked his lips. Pictured where he had last seen his erection.  
“Don’t stress, dollface. It’s clean.”  
Peter felt the blood leave his face. He jerked his attention to Bucky’s face, the one smiling so wickedly, it actually looked legitimately sinister.  
“You enjoy that little show?”  
“You knew I was there?”  
“Peter. I was a covert assassin for seventy years. Yeah. I knew.”  
Peter blushed and gripped his elbow hard. “Does Steve?”  
“No.” Bucky leered into his eyes. “And if you do a good job, I won’t tell him.”  
A bribe. A lure. Not that Peter needed one to fall on his knees before Barnes. Peter crossed the carpet and knelt between Bucky’s legs. He stared at his cock, fully erect.  
“Wouldn’t have let you wear one of his shirts anyway,” Bucky said, nonplussed as he sat back and watched the TV screen. “If anything, you'd wear mine. Because for the next three nights, you belong to me.”  
Butterflies swarmed in Peter’s stomach. Without another word, he wrapped his hand around the base of Buck’s length and put his mouth on his cock.


	10. The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean... It's about damn time.

Peter had lost all sense of time. Of self. He didn’t know whether five or thirty minutes had passed since he first wrapped his lips around Barnes. Somehow, he had managed to get his mouth not only over Bucky’s cock, but take him to the back of his throat and further still while he worked the base with this hand.  
He had done this all of once. Peter was determined to get better; to entice Barnes the way Barnes did him.  
The ballgame was at halftime. Peter only knew because of all the chatter and song.  
“Damn. You got a mouth on you,” the bigger man purred, his flesh hand easing through Peter’s hair.  
At the beginning, Peter had tasted the faint trail of soap on his cock. Now he tasted skin and salt and his own saliva. Buck had started rolling his hips at some point, coaxing Peter to take him deeper. How, Peter wasn’t exactly sure.  
Bucky gripped his hair. Peter felt the muscles of Bucky's leg turn to stone beneath his palm. Bucky pulled Peter off of him, panting. Peter looked up into Bucky’s green eyes.  
“Fuck. You should see yourself right now. Lips all glossed up. Blushing like a little bride. You ever had your ass eaten?” Bucky asked devlishly, running his rough thumb over Peter’s bottom lip.  
Flushing anew, Peter shook his head. He could hardly breathe. His tongue darted out to lick Bucky’s thumb. He sucked at the tip of it.  
“Bought time you did, I think.” Bucky gave him a ravenous once-over, Peter still on his knees between those legs. Bucky lifted his eyes to indicate his bedroom, finishing with a distinct nod toward it. “Get going.”  
Peter stood up on wobbly knees and took himself into Barnes’ bedroom. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Felt Bucky enter the room and shut the door. Bucky's warm body embraced him from behind.  
“Hands and knees on the mattress,” Bucky said against the shell of his ear. “I wanna see you.”  
Peter slowly, as though the air around him had congealed, crawled onto the bed and presented himself. He glanced back at Bucky with a question he didn’t know how to voice.  
The man wore a crooked grin. “Now that’s a meal I’m gonna enjoy.”  
Peter sucked in a breath when the man leaned in and bit his left cheek, then the right, his metal fingers toying with the entrance to his body. Peter whimpered, his fingers biting into the bedsheets. Bucky’s hand came down on him, the sting of his slap to Peter’s rear kicking a moan from Peter’s throat.  
“Bucky—”  
Two big hands, one colder than the other, clamped on to Peter’s ass cheeks. Pried him apart. Exposed and prone, Peter shivered. Bucky blew on him. Peter bit his bottom lip fiercely. Even though he knew in theory what to expect, Peter moaned in shock as the other man put his mouth into the seam of his body. His elbows nearly buckled. Peter felt Bucky’s tongue trace the circle of his entrance. Lick stripes over it. Peter was panting even before Bucky’s tongue prodded him open. Peter sank onto one elbow, only his dominant arm managing to hold steady and support him. Bucky’s tongue pushed into him and licked him senseless when it came out again. Peter breathed raggedly, but Bucky implied no plan of stopping. Peter felt Bucky’s flesh hand applying pressure to the back of his calf as his metal hand slid around his hip and down his spine. Bucky guided Peter’s head down to the mattress, his cheek against the sheets.  
Then Bucky took his hands to Peter’s thighs, gripped them, and pulled Peter back against his face.  
Peter whined as his cock throbbed.  
Bucky tongued him relentlessly until Peter's slit wept and Peter was sure he’d shoot his load onto the man’s comforter without much more preamble. By then, he shamelessly pushed back against Bucky’s face on his own, desperate for the pleasure his tongue brought.  
All too quickly, the stimulation vanished. Peter looked back just in time to see Bucky sandwich his cock between Peter’s ass cheeks. Push them together. With a groan, Bucky rolled his hips, dragging the underside of his cock through his own saliva.  
Suddenly, the world spun and Bucky had Peter on his back. He pinned him by the throat. Bucky inserted his body between Peter’s legs. Spread them wide.  
A spark of memory and a spike of fear lanced through Peter.  
“L—lube?” he choked out.  
Bucky leaned over him, looming with a hungry smirk, dusky greens lust blown.  
“Trust me. You’re wet enough,” Bucky reassured against his lips. Bucky squeezed Peter’s throat.  
Peter gasped when he felt the satin warmth of the head of Bucky’s cock against his entrance. His pulse picked up. He looked down to see his own cock fully erect and Bucky’s hips between his thighs. Slowly, Bucky pushed the head of his dick inside. Peter’s mouth dropped open, his fingers grasping wildly for a handful of bedsheet. Bucky's cock felt so warm. So solid.  
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Bucky growled. “Better than I imagined.”  
Peter moaned through the pressure, the sensation of being stretched over a cock that was both pleasurable, painful, and bizarre. He reached for the man’s flesh shoulder and kneaded his muscle.  
“So pretty, all spread out for me.”  
Bucky leaned over him and nosed his way under Peter’s jaw where he started to nibble and suck his claim into his skin. Peter bared his neck without question. Another solid inch filled him. Peter moaned brokenly. Measure by measure, the man sank into him until he was fully buried. Bucky hadn’t been wrong. His rock-hard girth slid in without too much issue. Peter had completely lost the capacity of speech.  
“So tight. So good,” Bucky’s baritone rumbled.  
Peter tried not to squirm around the intrusion. He slid his hand down his own abdomen on a direct path for his erection. Bucky caught his wrist. With finite force, he pinned Peter’s hands to the mattress above his head.  
“Not until I say,” Bucky husked. He transferred Peter’s wrists into his mech hand and hooked one of Peter’s legs over his shoulder.  
Peter fisted and flexed his fingers, muscles protesting and his complaints stuck somewhere behind his teeth. But the voracious heat in Peter liquefied when Bucky began to thrust. He plowed in slow and steady, his thick cock rubbing over his insides, insides that seemed to cling and keep. Bucky’s erection kept scraping something that left Peter reeling. Breathless.  
“Damn. Your sweet spot is even easier to reach than Steve’s. You gonna be a slut for me, too?”  
Who? Peter shivered, his eyes squeezed shut, as Bucky’s cock relentlessly stroked that spot and ignited volts of pleasure through his body.  
“Yes,” Peter rasped. And he didn’t know if he was answering Bucky’s question, or just pleading for him to keep going.  
Bucky adjusted his hips slightly, his next thrust hitting that spot dead on. Peter’s jaw dropped with a cry.  
His eyes fluttered open, gasping for breath, and found a true carnivore forging his way into his body. Into his soul. Peter wrapped his leg around Bucky’s hip.  
“That’s it,” Bucky cajoled, his voice like molten rock. Peter’s moans began to hitch, to climb.  
He fought to free himself. To get to his own need.  
“No. You’re gonna cum on my cock, completely untouched. You’re gonna be so far gone. So mine. You’ll crave me. Won’t be able to tell where I begin and you end,” Bucky spoke against his ear. “Go ahead. You’ve got my permission.”  
The ceiling blurred. Peter didn’t recognize the sounds oozing from his lips.  
Bucky began to beat into him faster. Harder.  
Release raced up Peter’s spine. The world within imploded. Peter’s vision whited out. Just before he regained coherence, he felt liquid heat flooding him.  
When he came back to full consciousness, Bucky was thrusting through the last of his orgasm, packing his seed deeper inside Peter. A glance down told Peter he had sprayed his load onto both of them. Peter could feel some cooling on his chin.  
Peter swallowed thickly. Looked up into the greens that smacked of victory—of pride—of possessiveness.  
“You got the stamina of a virgin, Pete. We gotta work on that.” Bucky smiled crookedly against his lips and kissed him. Peter returned the embrace, open mouthed and sloppy. So thoroughly spent, Peter hardly felt Bucky pulling out of him. Barely noticed the way Bucky drew Peter up higher into bed and against his chest, wrapping them in the comforter, before the guy was knocked into the kind of sleep only satedness could bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback, encouragement, critiques, and enthusiasm. I have a lot more than this written, but decided to bust it into two chapters. Next one should be coming tomorrow. Hope you enjoyed!


	11. That Billy Idol Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reels after sharing Bucky's bed. There are one too many surprises the next day.

Peter woke up alone, the scent of bold roast coffee replacing sex. Or whatever Bucky’s room typically smelled like. He digested the sight around him—mussed sheets with at least one visible cum stain. The drapes had been drawn, making it still seem impossibly dark despite feeling so well rested.  
He pushed himself into a sitting position and ran his hand over the space he last remembered Bucky occupying. The sheet was cold. What time was it? 6? 7?  
After some searching, he found the digital clock. 8:20.  
“Shit.” Professor Sullivan’s test! With a yelp, Peter leaped out of bed and across the carpet, ignoring the hints of soreness that reinforced the authenticity of last night’s events, and raced his way through his morning routine. He brushed his teeth in the shower. Pissed there, too.  
Steve, graciously, had helped him study a bit last night, quizzing him while they threw together pastrami and rye. But it would have been a lie to say Peter felt fully prepared. Moment of truth, he supposed. Sullivan was a hardass when it came to missing exams. Zero tolerance policy. Peter should have studied harder.  
After he pulled on jeans and a thick red hoodie, Peter slung his bag over one shoulder and dashed into the kitchen. He came up short near the coffee maker, catching Bucky’s eyes from across the tile. Bucky, wearing only athletic pants, sat over a cereal bowl at the breakfast table, his hair piecey and his eyes crinkled. Peter’s heartstrings twanged. The man finished his mouthful, sucked a tooth clean, and scowled.  
“The fuck you gawking at me for, pretty boy? Get your sweet ass to campus.” He used his spoon to show Peter the way to the door.  
Peter smiled, grabbed an apple, and hurried out. 

Peter managed to polish off the apple before barging through the doors of Iverson Hall and slipping into Sullivan’s class two minutes late. He grabbed a packet from the table, chose a seat, and took his midterm. But every other moment, he found himself chewing on something, whether it be his lip, an eraser, or the fantasy he had never dreamed would come true. The page blurred as he remembered where Bucky’s tongue had been. And the taste of him. Flushing hotly, Peter blinked himself awake and buckled down. He’d gush over the memory later.  
The class emptied out an hour and a half later. Peter was one of the last to finish. Sullivan gave him a grimly inquisitive look over his glasses when Peter handed his packet in at the podium.  
“Sorry about being late,” Peter mumbled as he carded fingers through his still damp hair.  
Sullivan gave him a once-over, shook his head, and time-stamped the exam. 

Heaving a sigh, Peter pushed the door open, turned into the corridor, and was promptly smacked in the shoulder with a spiral notebook.  
“You dickwad!”  
Molly whacked his arm again.  
“I sent you a million messages last night and you never responded! I thought you died!”  
Shocked, Peter patted his pockets down. His phone! He had left it tucked between the cushions of the armchair.  
“God. Molly, I’m so sorry. I forgot to check it.”  
She huffed, clutched her spiral, turned on her heel, and started briskly down the hall, her berry red wedges clicking against the tile. Peter hurried after her.  
“Molly, I really am sorry.”  
“Did you go through with it?” she preened.  
Peter blushed. “Y—yeah.”  
Her ire forgotten, Molly shrilled, snatched his arm, and hugged it. “MY GAYBY! All grown up!”  
Peter grinned and rubbed the back of his neck.  
“So?” she pressed.  
“So what?”  
“So dish! How was it?”  
“Think I’m still trying to process how it was.”  
They pushed out of Iverson hall and into the brisk November air.  
“What does that mean?” Molly asked as they took the stairs down to the street.  
“It doesn’t feel real.”  
“Do you have a selfie with him?” She smirked.  
Peter laughed just trying to imagine that. “He’s not the selfie type. And I think he’s had enough of cameras,” he added under his breath.  
“OK. Peter. I need a picture of this person. You’re alluding to him like—”  
“I can’t just snap a photo, Mol. All I can say is he’s like…”  
“Like he just stepped out of a Harley Davidson magazine?”  
Stricken at her intuitiveness, Peter frowned. “Yeah, actually. How did you—?”  
Molly jerked him to a stop. Pointed up ahead. Peter followed her finger and dropped his jaw.  
As if by magic, just a dozen paces ahead, there he was. Cigarette in hand, Bucky Barnes stood against a streetlight in a leather jacket, jeans, and his Wayfarers. Like an 80’s hit single.  
Like that Billy Idol song.  
“I. Hate you,” Molly declared.  
The universe spun like he had just knocked back half a bottle. Peter stammered. “Y—you wanna meet him?”  
“Right now?” she said, aghast. “Like this? No way. I don’t even have a full face on!”  
Dumbstruck, Peter resumed gaping at Bucky.  
“He’s obviously waiting for you. Don’t make it weird!” Molly stepped around behind him and gave him a little shove. “Text me later, you lucky bastard.”  
Peter glanced over his shoulder and caught her wink before she sauntered off in the other direction. 

Noticing Peter’s approach, Bucky put his smoke out under the heel of his boot. “Forget somethin’?” Bucky asked, waving a phone through the air. Only then did Peter notice the leather gloves on his hands. It was Peter’s phone. Bucky tossed it to him. Peter flailed clumsily to make the catch.  
“Twenty-three unread messages. Thought it might have been important.”  
“Thanks,” Peter whispered shyly. He shoved his phone into his pants.  
Bucky nodded up the street. “That Molly?”  
How did he…? Peter felt the color go out of his face.  
Bucky laughed and hung a left and slid his hands into his pockets. “Don’t worry, kid. I didn’t read ‘em.”  
Peter sagged with relief.  
“/All/.”  
Wide eyed, Peter jogged to catch him.  
After a few of the longest moments Peter had ever endured, Bucky spoke up from beside him.  
“You hungry?”  
“Starving,” Peter admitted before he could think it over.  
“Good. Thought we’d grab something from the deli. Bring it out to the site and eat with Steve.”  
“He’s working today?”  
“Yep.”  
Peter wasn’t surprised. Their hours didn’t always coincide. Peter’s heart galloped through his storming emotions. Could he face Steve so soon after rolling off the other side of James’ bed? What would Steve want to know? Would he ask? Would it even matter?  
“Uh. Maybe I should just…”  
“What? You got something better to do?”  
“No,” Peter mumbled.  
Bucky bumped up against his shoulder and flashed him a warm smirk. “Then quit whining.”  
Adjusting his hold on the shoulder strap of his bag, Peter frowned. “How’d you know where to find me anyway?”  
“Tailed you for a week couple months back. Needed to know where you were in case anything ever happened.”  
Bucky turned into the Starboard Side Deli, leaving Peter to gape after him on the sidewalk. 

They took the subway to reach the construction site—the skeletal structure of a new building in the business district coming together atop a large dirt lot—where they found Steve in a hardhat, shouldering two thick steel beams. He wore jeans with a long sleeve thermal covered by a light jacket, his Aviators tucked into the pocket. His face was smudged. His clothes were dirty. It brought out his blue eyes like nothing Peter had ever seen.  
Steve smiled when he spotted them and put the beams down. He met Bucky with a hug, hands clapped against backs with enough force to knock the wind from a normal man.  
“Hey,” Steve greeted Peter. “Your test go OK?”  
“I think so,” Peter replied shyly. He held his bag strap tighter.  
“Brought you somethin’,” Bucky said, thrusting a bag into Steve’s arms and flicking the brim of his hardhat up. “You can make it up to me later.”  
They ate together on a nearby picnic bench. Peter watched the crew on duty truck in new materials. A crane operator. A man carefully directing where a beam should be set. Another couple men welding.  
“You on tonight?” Steve asked Bucky before he bit into his hoagie.  
“Nah. Tomorrow’s day crew, if my luck holds.”  
Steve smiled.  
“They given any news on the Fountain project?”  
“Nothing yet. Fingers crossed we get in.”  
“Fountain project?” Peter asked.  
“Boss landed a pretty big contract down in Fountain Hills building condominiums. Work should last until summer.”  
“Woah. Cool!” A CRACK caught Peter's attention. Peter whipped around to see a couple guys with sledge hammers breaking up an old concrete slab.  
Bucky nudged him with an elbow. “You wanna give it a try?”  
“Me?”  
“Why not? Doesn’t take a degree to bust some rocks.”  
Peter brightened and stood up.  
“Hang on, Eager Beaver,” Steve said. “You need goggles and a hardhat first.”  
After Steve got back to business with the beams, Bucky took Peter to the old foundation and showed him some techniques.  
“We’ll take it from here, fellas,” Bucky told the two men dripping with sweat. They gladly handed over their tools. Wielding a sledge hammer really hadn’t been as self-explanatory as Peter anticipated, but he got the hang of it after a couple swings. It felt incredible to be able to lay into something with every ounce of Peter's strength, not a care in the world demanding he hold back.  
A big man with a beard full of dust walked by once. Twice. Peter caught him pushing his hat back and scratching his head. What was left of the old foundation had been smashed into portable pieces in less than two hours. Peter noticed how Bucky kept his jacket and gloves on. Peter wondered if Bucky could achieve the same as the sledgehammer with his metal fist alone.  
“Barnes,” the bearded man said as he approached. “What the hell is this?”  
“This is Peter,” Bucky fired back, gesturing to Peter with one of his big hands. “Peter, meet the boss.”  
Peter quickly wiped his hand on his jeans and stuck it out. “Peter Parker.”  
The boss eyed him. Nodded a bit dazedly. “Richardson.” He shook Peter’s hand.  
“Enthusiastic, ain’t he?” Bucky added.  
Richardson nodded again.  
Peter and Bucky worked until the whistle blew, hauling each bit of concrete to a truck that had already made two trips to the dump yard that day. They piled the last chunk into the bed and closed the tailgate together.  
The sun was setting. Walking across the dirt lot, Bucky flung his flesh arm around Peter’s shoulders. Squeezed him. “You did damn good, kid. Proud of you.” He took off Peter’s hardhat and tussled his hair. On the way to join the others, Bucky tossed the hardhats and plastic goggles back into the pile for the night crew.  
They came to the edge of a circle of other men wiping the day’s sweat from their brows. Richardson stood in the center with a handful of envelopes. Steve found Bucky and Peter and smiled.  
“Alright, boys," Richardson boomed. "Thanksgiving came early. Step right up for payroll. Lists are out for the Fountain project, too. Yellow envelopes stay on. White—you’re out.”  
Richardson walked the circle, dishing out envelopes and a few words of inspiration or condolence here and there. The cluster thinned as the men took their pay and headed out.  
“Congratulations, Rogers,” Richardson said, handing Steve a yellow envelope. “See you Wednesday.”  
Steve gave a grateful nod.  
“Better luck next time, Barnes.” Richardson held out a white envelope to Bucky. “Tossed in a bit extra for today. Thanks for the help. I mean that.”  
Bucky accepted the envelope. Stared at it. Peter watched his spirits gutter.  
Richardson gave Peter a nod and walked back toward his trailer.  
The three of them stood in the dirt, the warmth of the sun completely gone.  
“Take the kid home,” Bucky said lowly.  
“Buck.” Steve started to reach for him. “It’s OK. We’ll make—”  
“Steve,” Bucky snapped, baring his teeth when he jerked around to meet Steve’s eyes. “Just… Take the fucking kid.” With that, Bucky turned and stalked off.  
Peter looked worriedly at Steve who stared after Bucky. The sorrow in Steve's face was a sledgehammer to Peter's heart.


	12. The Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes Peter home and lays a different sort of foundation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posed two chapters tonight. Be sure to read 11 before 12.

The ride home in Steve’s truck was quiet as the sunset. As Peter toed an empty Coke can, he stared out the window, the last half an hour looping through his mind, his hope that he and Barnes were finally getting cozy soundly squashed. When they reached the apartment, Peter dragged his feet up the stairs and went somberly to his bedroom. Peter dropped down onto the edge of his mattress, his eyes downcast. Steve stayed in the car for what felt like a long time.  
/Take the kid home./  
Was Peter that much of a nuisance?  
The front door swung open and closed. Peter listened to Steve mill about, hanging his coat in the hall closet, rinsing off his face, and doing things as menial as loading the breakfast dishes and starting the dishwasher. Sorting the mail. Filling a glass of water.  
On Steve's way back to his room, Steve stopped in Peter's doorway. “Lookin’ a little droopy, Pete. How about a bath?”  
Yeah. Peter was probably filthy. “I’ll shower in a bit. Thanks.”  
Steve held his ground. “I mean with me.”  
Peter’s attention snapped up to Steve who had the patience of God in his eyes. A lump formed in Peter’s throat. Peter wanted to fall into those blues. It felt like he could finally get some rest there. The thought of being in Steve’s arms, if that was how this was going to work, was just as appealing. Peter nodded. Steve held out his hand. Peter found his feet and took it—big and warm and rough enough to substantiate his work ethic. Steve’s beloved Marvin Gaye Greatest Hits album played softly from the portable stereo on his dresser. The rich, soulful sound fit him somehow. Sad and strong. Compassionate and honest. Nostalgic and timeless.  
Steve led him into the bathroom and turned on the faucet, carefully calibrating the nodule to Jacuzzi temperatures.  
Steve stood up. Shucked off his shirt. Dropped his jeans.  
Peter’s stomach flipped. He quickly copied Steve. Somehow, the idea that baths necessitated nakedness had completely slipped his mind. His anxiety made no rational sense. They had already seen one another naked. But after last night with Bucky, Peter was almost sure nudity would entail—  
Steve gently grabbed Peter’s wrist before he could push his boxerbriefs down. “Shorts can stay on.”  
Not a command. An option. Nerves soothed, Peter smiled thankfully. Still wearing his shorts—dark blue boxers that hugged his assets like they had been cut specially for him—Steve stepped into the bath and sank down to rest against the back wall. He laid his arms over the edges of the tub and gave Peter the dignity of getting in on his own. Peter left his boxers on, too.  
The spout was in the way on the other end, so Peter sat between Steve’s legs, facing the rushing water. Hot, but not hot enough to burn. It eased the ache in his muscles from cracking and hauling concrete all afternoon. With the two of their body masses combined, the water that had been shallow only a moment ago nearly reached the brim. Steve leaned forward, his chest pressed against Peter’s back, reached out his mountainous arm, and turned the faucet off. When he sat back, he pulled Peter with him. The scent of dirt and rock and sweat and hot water, the smell of a long day, wrapped Peter up too.  
Peter’s heart swelled. God. Bucky had to be the luckiest guy Peter had ever met to have this sort of treatment on tap at any time—this calm, quiet sort of love. Why didn't Bucky take it tonight? Peter should have bowed out. Should have let Steve go with Bucky. Should have made himself scarce to let Steve put Bucky back together. What the hell could Peter provide that compared? Peter frowned.  
“Did I do something wrong?” Peter whispered.  
“No.” Kindly. Definitively.  
Peter felt ridiculous for asking. For overthinking the obvious. “Then what just happened?”  
Steve gave a thoughtful pause. “Buck has had trouble keeping a job ever since we started lookin’. That’s the fifth time he’s been let go. He has the drive. The manpower. He just can’t follow orders. Ever since he got free of Hydra, he has wanted to be his own boss.”  
“I can’t stay with him tonight?”  
“What?” Steve said with a tender tease in his voice. Nuzzled his softly smiling lips against Peter’s neck. “I ain’t up to snuff?”  
“No! No, it’s not that at all. I just thought… we had a plan. He made those rules.”  
Steve sighed. “You’ll be with me tonight. James hates pity. And when he’s this miffed, he can get… tuff in the bedroom.”  
Peter knitted his brows together. “Tough?”  
“Let’s just say last time he got the boot from a crew, I absorbed the aftermath.”  
Peter frowned. “He hurt you?”  
“We had a scenario get a little out of hand. It never happened again. Buck distances himself when he knows he can be dangerous. Usually numbs with a bottle. Or three. Makes him pretty docile, actually.”  
Peter frowned wryly. “So all that talk about him staying with you when he regresses?”  
“Mostly bogus excuses to sleep together without making you uncomfortable. Real regression, I’ve only seen twice from him. That’s why we had to move out of our old place.” Steve snuck his thicker fingers in between Peter’s through the back. Held his hands. Peter listened to the water lapping at the porcelain walls and dripping off of Steve’s arms.  
Peter remembered something then; a piece of a promise he would ask Steve about when the time felt right. Instead, he asked something less invasive. “Where do you think he went?”  
“He had a counseling session scheduled. But knowing him, he skipped and went straight to the bar.”  
“Thought you couldn’t get drunk.”  
“/I/ can’t. Whatever Zola did to Bucky, his body still processes toxins at a slow enough rate.”  
“Aren’t you worried about him?”  
He felt Steve shrug. “Mildly. Just because of how self-destructive he can be when he doesn’t have a target for his anger.”  
“Shouldn’t you go get him? Bring him home?”  
Steve eased one hand free, took Peter by the chin, turned his head, and leaned around to meet his eyes. “I’m his lover. Not his handler, Peter. And with that comes a certain level of implicit respect for his decisions. He'll be OK. Give him some time. If he needs us, he’ll say so.”  
“I wanna help him. Don’t know how.”  
Steve smiled through his blues and kissed Peter’s brow. “You’re a good man, Peter. You have a good heart and a real soft spot for us wounded soldiers. You’ll be with him again soon. I promise.”  
Steve settled back against the tub and Peter relaxed against his chest. /A good man./ Peter tried to smile, but it came out as more of a cringe because of the secret he was keeping.  
“That’s the first time you’ve called me a man. Not a kid.”  
“Slip of the tongue.”  
“Hey,” Peter groused.  
Hands once again entwined, Steve wrapped Peter up and squeezed him as he hooked his chin over his shoulder. At twenty and a seasoned vigilante, Peter wasn’t a little guy, nor was he weak. In addition to his super might, he was pretty well built when pitted against the other guys in his classes. The sports junkies tried to recruit him on campus all the time. The fact that Steve could cocoon him this way—make him feel small, almost delicate—was no small feat.  
“Compared to me, you’re still an ankle biter.”  
Another bolt of guilt. “I saw you.”  
“Saw me?”  
“You both.” He clamped down on the insides of his cheeks. “I was in the closet yesterday.” And that would have been funny were he not floundering in shame.  
For a terrifying moment, Steve said nothing at all. Peter listened to him breathe, his Spidey senses on red alert for any hint of disapproval.  
“Why?” Steve asked plainly.  
“I wanted… I thought if I was gonna spend that much time with someone like Bucky that I…”  
Peter felt Steve’s body shift toward realization; interpret the truth he couldn’t say.  
“You were looking for my Dodgers shirt.”  
Peter melted at the mellow sentimentality in his voice. He nodded sheepishly. “It was stupid. Should have asked, but it felt lame.”  
“Can’t exactly say I’m surprised. The first time we met, you stole something of mine too,” he teased.  
Peter winced. “I was gonna give it back. Eventually.”  
A weight lifted from Peter when Steve started chuckling in the subdued fashion he sometimes did. Steve kissed the crook of Peter’s neck. “Bless you, sweetstuff. It’s yours.”  
Peter blushed and tried to contain his smile as Steve swayed with him faintly to the rhythm of Inner City Blues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the whole me-posting-two-chapters-in-a-night thing wasn't confusing. x_x
> 
> OK. With this Downy mess out of the way, I'm gonna state the obvious--Steve and Peter's romance won't be like Peter and Bucky. And it won't be like Bucky and Steve.  
> Their threesome is a rubix cube of flavors. Each of them needs something different from the other.  
> After much deliberation, I've decided to keep the fic exclusively in Peter's POV. (That was not the original plan.)
> 
> A secret for those who are still with me: Steve's nurturing side came out here. Bucky doesn't let him do things like this, and Peter hasn't realized that yet. Bucky doesn't let Steve help him beyond the bare minimum. And Steve is in desperate need of someone to take care of. 
> 
> Thank you for your incredible support and comments. You all inspire me.
> 
> \- Harper


	13. The Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's night with Steve turns steamy.

Before we dive in, I'm going to address a marvelous question left by wannabathwithSteve!

Why do Steve and Bucky need jobs?  
Won't lie. Initially, as a full time employed adult with five bills and rent to pay every month, I was taken aback. But after getting my head out of my ass and realizing that not everyone is as MCU obsessive as I am... and many readers are in their late teens/early twenties, I jumped at the opportunity to explain.  
1\. Tony Stark. It’s explicitly stated in Age of Ultron that Stark "pays for everything". I presume he has significant investments in stocks that keep his income high in addition to side ventures he has his hands in. Case in point—Tony is their bank. That includes signing the paychecks of the team. After the events in Civil War, Steve and his faction against the Accords go rogue, cut off from any support from Stark. You can bet they took work where they could find it and probably spent every last penny of their savings just to survive. (I mean, let's be real. Steve couldn't even afford a razor. … Bad joke?) Things between Rogers and Stark have not mended as far as I can tell. Stark may be funding Peter's college education, but I think it's a safe bet that Stark would flat out refuse to fork over a dime to Barnes after, you know, killing his mother. And Steve for so epically letting him down.  
2\. Uncle Sam. When Steve was in the army, be it as a showpony or a Captain, he was probably getting stipends from the government. Same goes for Buck. As vigilantes, that option is out. Vigilantes, by definition, function apart from a government entity and are therefore not subsidized. And while Steve and Bucky may have been (begrudgingly) pardoned for their wayward ventures in Germany after saving Planet Earth from Thanos, you can bet your bottom dollar they'll never see a dime in financial aid from the US.  
3\. In my lore, Steve wants to feel needed and Bucky wants to feel normal. A job is an easy way to achieve both of those ends.  
4\. The average rent for a typical 2-bedroom apartment in the metro NY area is just under 2 grand a month. Let's say they pay 2.2 for their three bedroom. Three full grown men can run up a grocery bill as higher than 400 a month. They'll need to pay for cell phone service, internet, cable, electricity, and gas--all easily as much as half a grand for three people. Oh! And we nearly forgot car insurance. Health insurance. Taxes. We're already above 3.5 grand just for living expenses. Let's not forget clothing, recreation, gym memberships, gadgets, uniforms, etc. In New York, they'll need to pull 60k a year just to have a decent life, y'all. Way of the world.  
5\. Additionally, one can assume the need for super heroes would plummet after defeating the universe’s biggest baddie. Steve and Bucky need a way to spend their time outside of fucking. (As much as we all wish their life was a constant porno.)

So why do Barnes and Rogers have jobs?  
To pay their bills. Because ain't no one else shelling out cash that isn't earned.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the bath cooled and Peter’s fingers were more suited to life in the water than on land, Steve drained the tub. They stood up and showered off the concrete dust and grime from the day. The scent of Irish Spring on Steve’s skin was almost enough to make Peter jump him right then and there. But by some miracle, maybe the fear of rejection, Peter refrained. It felt good to just be with Steve—to exist in the same space with no immediate expectation to perform. At first, the lack of attention to Peter’s lower assets was a relief. But as the moments ticked by, a pressure began to build inside Peter.  
They dressed. Peter didn’t have the guts to ask for another one of Steve’s shirts, no matter how desperately he craved wearing one. The Dodgers tee was in the wash pile beneath the mess that had come in from the construction site. Peter yanked on a pair of joggers and an old graphic long sleeve. Steve donned Jersey pants and a cotton T which he filled out sinfully well. The man had to have a built-in heater. It was all of twenty degrees outside. Maybe SHIELD had installed one.  
Peter sat with his back against the rounded arm of the sofa with a textbook braced against his knees. Steve sat at arm’s length scribbling through a grocery list before he swapped to balancing his checkbook on scratch paper. Despite their gas log fireplace radiating warmth and the thermostat set to seventy, Peter’s toes felt frozen. Had to be the fault of his damp hair. Trying to be subtle, Peter snuck his feet in under Steve’s thigh. Thought he’d laugh it off if the guy seemed uncomfortable with it. Peter just wouldn’t make eye contact. Then it wouldn’t be weird.  
Feet soaking up the warmth from under Steve’s leg, Peter gave a silent sigh at the relief.  
Steve got up. He disappeared down the hall.  
Dejectedly, Peter tucked his knees back in and tried to pretend it didn’t faze him.  
Steve came back a moment later. Sat down. Peter kept his eyes rooted to his textbook, and the paragraph he had skimmed without seeing a dozen times. Peter felt one hand around his ankle and a gentle tug. Peter looked up. Steve pulled Peter’s leg across his lap and slipped a thick sock over his foot, then the other.  
Peter stared.  
Steve kept Peter’s legs over his lap as he resumed his work with the checkbook, occasionally rubbing one of Peter’s feet with his warm hand.  
Peter’s stare melted into a gaze as a rigid part of his insides caved. He watched the reading lamp and firelight accent the indentions of Steve’s face. It wasn’t perfect, he realized, the faint lines and calling cards of age just barely visible. Somehow, it emphasized how handsome he was. Peter smiled to himself, looked down at his textbook, and actually read the page.  
Two chapters passed before Steve set the checkbook and scratch paper aside.  
“Hungry?” Steve asked.  
Peter nodded. Steve leaned over and used a kiss to distract Peter as he pulled the textbook out of his hands. Closed it. Steve gave a nod toward the kitchen.  
They made pasta. Steve looked mildly mortified when Peter added half-and-half and a sprinkling of sriracha to the marinara sauce. Peter offered up the wooden stirring spoon to him. Steve took a taste and changed his mind.  
They sat at the kitchen table with salad, sourdough smothered in garlic butter, and spaghetti. Peter told Steve about Molly. And it was probably on account of his second glass of red wine that he spilled the beans about the MJ costume. Peter had never seen Steve laugh so hard.  
After dinner was finished and the dishes were done, Steve danced with him. In the heart of the den, Steve led Peter through a simple, modest sway to the smooth jazz streaming from the stereo, Peter’s hand held aloft and Steve’s other hand on his hip. Suddenly, their apartment felt to Peter like the most romantic place he had ever set foot in.  
By then, the pressure had built to unbearable. When their dance ended, Peter excused himself to the bathroom where he stared at his reflection. His breaths came fast. His face was flushed.  
Was this what seduction felt like? Did Steve even know what he was doing to Peter? Did Steve feel the desire as strongly? Was Peter misreading the entire thing?  
Thrice, Peter raked his mind for anything remotely sexual they had done that could have reduced him to this state. He came up with nothing every time.  
How then?  
Peter wanted to kiss him fierce enough to bruise. Wanted Steve’s hands all over him. If Steve felt that too, why hadn’t it already happened? Was it because, at the end of the day, Peter wasn’t Bucky?  
Peter took a piss, rolling his eyes at himself. Always overthinking.  
In Peter’s experience, it had been terribly easy to lose the people he loved. He clung too tight. Peter could see himself clinging to Steve like gum to a shoe.  
Wonderful.  
Steve would have two men to keep tabs on. Two men to patch up and hold together. No one would willingly sign up for that.  
Mood dashed, Peter rejoined Steve in the den where Steve flipped through channels when Peter sat down next to him.  
The words tumbled out. “Shouldn’t you be doing all this with Bucky right now?”  
Steve didn’t look at him as he continued to channel surf. “James and I don’t do things like this.”  
Peter blinked rapidly. “What?” He turned to Steve.  
A shadow fell over Steve’s face. “We don’t really do the romance thing. Sorry if I overwhelmed you, sweetstuff. Kinda starved for it.” He smiled sheepishly, but Peter saw the pain in his face.  
Peter paused. “Can I ask you something?”  
“Sure, Pete.”  
“Earlier, you said Bucky hurt you. But he told me he couldn’t do that unless—”  
“I asked him to.” The shadow darkened.  
Peter shut his mouth. Stared.  
“I told him to hurt me, Peter.” He exhaled through his nose, his blues fastened to the television. “We do that. He’s got hang-ups from HYDRA. I have my own sickness. Just works. OK?”  
“Sickness?”  
“Forget it,” he whispered.  
“Steve…”  
“Peter, can we please just drop it for now? Please.”  
Peter nodded.  
Steve swallowed and gave Peter a tight smile. Reached over and squeezed his knee. “I’ll be back.” Steve put the remote aside and left the room.  
Peter listened to the bathroom door shut.  
What weren’t they telling him? Why the fuck had Peter thought that moment was the right time to broach the question that had been nagging at him? Chiding himself, Peter surged to his feet, breezed to the kitchen, and fixed Steve a short glass of bourbon. Peter knew he preferred the drink’s taste to any other choice.  
Steve returned and entered the kitchen with a slightly alarmed look staining his face, as though he had been looking for Peter. As though he thought Peter might have left the apartment. Peter met him halfway across the tile.  
“I’m sorry. It’s not my business.” He offered Steve the glass. “We were having such a wonderful night. I messed it up and I’m sorry.”  
Steve, like Bucky, was taller than Peter. Could stand over him like a lofty goal. Peter felt Steve’s hand wrap around the drink and his own fingers. Steve lifted Peter’s chin.  
“It is your business. Especially with what we’re all trying to be. I’m just not ready for you to see that side of me.”  
“What side?” Peter whispered, mesmerized by a shade of blue he had never seen—a hue of shame.  
“I’ll tell you someday,” Steve replied. “Will you let me take care of you tonight?”  
Peter searched in those familiar blues awash in strangeness. He still saw glimpses of the strength and the patience. The honesty and compassion. He found the sadness he knew so well wrapped around a kernel of something Peter couldn’t name.  
His own sickness. Did it have to do with asking Bucky to hurt him?  
“Can we make out for a while?” Peter asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.  
Steve’s answering smile, this time, was real.  
They started kissing in the kitchen before they took it back to the couch. Peter, hard enough to crack rocks, straddled Steve’s hips, his tongue halfway down the older guy’s throat. Steve had his big hands on Peter’s thighs. Peter gave a groan when Steve pushed his hands around behind him to cup his ass. Aside from sucking face, it was the most PG-13 thing Steve had done all night. Peter was ready to rip the shirt clean off of his body. How could the man resist his base desires for this long? Not that Peter wouldn’t gladly continue kissing for another half an hour. It wasn’t perfect. Steve was a man, not a Disney prince. But his passion and earnestness were undeniable. So were his techniques. Steve took it slow at first, like he had in the shower, before eventually adding tongue.  
It was almost maddening how badly Peter wanted him.  
The heat between them grew. So did Peter’s frustration with the slow, seductive pace of their evening. The most surprising part? Peter got an impulse he hadn’t experienced before: to bite. He bit Steve’s lower lip. Hard. Steve moaned from his throat. For a fraction of a second, Peter could have sworn he tasted blood. But when he pulled back, he couldn’t see an injury. And it almost… disappointed him. Peter quickly put it out of his mind.  
“W—we gonna take this to bed or…?” Peter panted. He hated how desperate he sounded, but he had come to accept Steve’s effect on him.  
“You bet.” Steve squeezed his rear, a subtle roll of his hips assuring Peter the arousal was mutual. “Yours or mine?”  
Peter smiled. “Yours,” he replied before he dove back into the kiss.  
They didn’t quite make it to the bedroom. For all of Peter’s spider powers, he proved to be pretty graceless when it came to navigating with his eyes closed. He nearly tripped on the rug, knocked over the standing lamp, and whacked his knee on the bookshelf. Every mishap resulted in a laugh. Steve didn’t seem to care. Neither man could keep their hands off each other, shedding clothes the whole way. Steve had him against the wall in the hallway leading to the bedrooms, body sandwiching Peter in place. Peter’s hands were in Steve’s hair.  
Steve jostled Peter’s pants open. Sank to his knees. Peter gasped, dropping his head back as Steve put his mouth around Peter’s dick.  
“Steve,” Peter rasped. Steve sucked him off. Peter repaid the favor afterward with Steve’s fingers in his hair.  
“Merciful God,” Steve panted through his orgasm. “So much for being a gentleman tonight.”  
Peter hadn’t thought this through. On his knees with a mouthful of semen, he realized he had no choice but to swallow it. He didn’t know why the viscus fluid sliding down his throat felt so good, but it got him hard again. Peter smirked and sucked life back into Steve’s dick. Steve came again a few moments later. This time, Peter spat his semen onto his length. Stroked the slippery substance over his erection.  
“Peter—Jesus.” Steve pulled him off his cock, helped Peter to his feet as easily as he brought him to his knees, spun him around, and pushed his body against the wall. Steve pressed his hand over Peter’s hand. Peter shivered at the feel of his cock against his ass. Breathing raggedly against Peter’s ear, Peter felt Steve shove his pants down around his thighs. Heard Steve suck on his fingers. Felt the same strong digits probing him. Peter licked his lips.  
“You OK with going all the way on the first date?” Steve's tone was aroused, but playful.  
“Steve—” Peter bit back some choice curse words. Through a crooked smile, “Wait. This is a date?”  
“Did I say date? Huh. S’pose I did.” With a grin, Steve spun Peter to face him and launched into another bout of kissing. Peter moaned into his mouth and picked up his drawers enough to back Steve into his bedroom. To fall with him into bed. He savored the feel of Steve's hands on his face, cupping his jaw. They undressed each other, rolling over the mattress like sex crazed teenagers. Thank God the guy had a queen size.  
He had been so into it that Peter didn't even hear Bucky come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this was a surprise. I wasn't planning to reveal Steve's severely masochistic streak for a couple chapters. It just came out.  
> Fuck it. The guy needs a flaw, right?  
> No, I don't condone abuse, but the next chapter mayyy require some trigger warnings.  
> I need to make good on Bucky's promise to Peter that this version of Stucky isn't always pretty anyway.
> 
> Remember, clergypeople, here in this church of smut, we're always open to donations in the form of suggestions and honest critiques.  
> And as always... Thanks for reading. ;]


	14. The Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter endures a paradigm shift as another layer in Steve and Bucky's relationship is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MAJOR FLUFF DEATH AHEAD.

When they rolled again, Peter pinned Steve on his back, Peter's hands pushing down on Steve's warm, broad chest. Peter broke from their kiss and, panting, pulled back to admire the build of the man below him.  
Some old movie quote about rippling pectorals darted through his memory. The guy had been crafted in a laboratory, after all. Said something about Man's ability to attain near perfection with the right tools. Maybe they'd reach a point when they no longer needed God at all.  
Steve had his hands on Peter's hips, his rough thumbs rubbing lazy circles. And Peter had his knees right where he wanted them: straddling Steve.  
"Do you remember when we met?" Peter asked.  
"Back when you were jail-bait and I dropped a gangway on you?"  
Peter nodded.  
A fond smile touched Steve's lips. "Wouldn't exactly call that a proper introduction. Couldn't even see your pretty face. But yeah. Of course I remember."  
Peter felt heat in his face, but he pressed on. "Did you... Did you feel anything between us then?"  
Steve's expression leaned more toward serious as he mulled the question over. "I knew I felt kinship with you. Specially when you told me where you were from. I meant it when I said you had heart. You did. You do, Peter."  
"You sure wore that uniform well."  
Steve chuckled.  
"Is it weird that I can't stop picturing you with your hands tied?" Peter bit his lip.  
The edges of Steve's eyes crinkled, his Caribbean gaze turning studious. He regarded Peter curiously, as though jigsawing together the meaning behind Peter's words. A glint of suspicion. A sparkle of surprise.  
Peter could hear his own blood pounding in his ears as Steve tried to read and evaluate him.  
Slowly, sinfully so, Steve brought his arms up to rest on the mattress above his head. He made loose fists. Crossed his wrists.  
"Somethin' like this?"  
Peter stared at the way his muscles dipped and swelled, flexed and relaxed... The tensile capacity in his web fluid would be strong enough to keep him like that. And combined with the spider strength coursing through Peter’s body, he could easily have his way with Captain America. Ride him at his own pace. Reduce him to begging. Make damn sure Steve would never see Peter as a kid again.  
Peter almost started drooling. Dumbly, he nodded. Steve must have read his mind. Then again, Peter had never been a master at schooling the tells out of his expression.  
"Maybe you should, uh... wear those goo doohickeys next time." Steve gave a devilish grin which still, somehow, looked angelic. It had to be the subtle blush that had crept into his cheeks.  
"Web-shooters," Peter corrected emphatically as he took one hand off Steve's chest and wrapped his fingers like a vice around the man's wrists. Peter leaned down and whispered against Steve's lips, "I think this'll work for now." And then they were kissing again.  
"I asked you to take the kid home. Not be balls deep in him before midnight."  
The shock of that familiar baritone cracked Peter's grasp. Steve broke it, sat up, and pulled Peter against his side. Protective. Possessive. But the way Steve looked at Bucky, which Peter saw because he hadn't taken his eyes off him, was nothing short of ashamed.  
Torrential anger, justified or not, rose in Parker. Not only did Bucky have the nerve to unload him on Steve, he also had the gall to derail their evening with guilt.  
Peter whipped his attention toward the door. "I'm not a kid," he snapped through his teeth. "You're the one who bailed." Peter noticed the mostly empty fifth of Tito's dangling from Bucky's flesh hand.  
"Peter," Steve said softly. It only fanned Peter's fury. Of course Rogers would side with Barnes.  
"I see," Bucky said lowly. "I get fired and you think it's OK to talk to me like that. Because, why? Boss seemed impressed with you? Maybe all he saw was a pretty mouth with a knack for obedience."  
"James," Steve warned.  
Peter's glare wavered at the reminder of the shit day Bucky had endured. Alone. "I didn’t mean… I want this. I want to be with you, Bucky. With him. I want this to be about all of us. We had a deal and you broke it. Steve and me didn't plan—"  
"So you jump on the first dick available?"  
That had Peter's hackles back up in an instant. And then, Peter said something awful that he knew would be an arrow to Bucky's titanic ego without thinking of what it could do to Steve.  
"Maybe."  
Bucky snarled and took a pull from the bottle.  
Peter felt Steve's arm slacken. Oh, God, no… No! He wanted to take it back. Wanted to shred and swallow that reply. Bury it some place no one would ever find it. Peter didn't have time to apologize.  
As he licked a splash of vodka from his lips, Bucky cracked the most terrifying smile Peter had ever seen. "Let's make this fun, then." He gave an upwards nod toward the nightstand. "Open the top drawer, Parker."  
Steve's brawny body went rigid. His eyes widened. "Wait. Wait a second. I'm not—"  
Bucky (whom Peter had just been reminded with Steve completely naked was broader even than Steve) cut him off. Bucky growled his way through something in Russian. Steve responded—urgent and pleading. They exchanged words for a moment more before Bucky polished off the last swig of Tito's, set the bottle on the dresser, and leveled Peter with a look of absolute authority. Total austerity.  
"Open it."  
Peter pulled away from Steve and did as he was told. He stared at what glinted up at him: a boning knife, the blade like starlight and as sharp as an unkind word. For defense? It made more sense to keep a loaded gun. Carefully, Peter picked it up by the handle. Turned to face the other two men.  
"What is this?" Peter asked. He looked from Bucky to Steve who had blanched.  
"A pen,” Bucky answered. As causally as if they were chatting about the weather, Bucky crossed his arms and shouldered the doorframe, which he occupied almost the entirety of. “I've carved my mark into that body more times than you've signed your name. Held it to his throat while I fucked him. Made him lick his own blood off the steel."  
The words fell on Peter like a guillotine. His attention darted over the smooth marble of Steve’s figure, searching for wounds. For scars. He found nothing.  
“I’ll be damned.” Bucky husked out a laugh. “He really had you fooled, didn’t he? Just an unassuming beefcake with a fat ass and blue eyes. All sunshine and sweet shit. Oh, Queens…” Bucky dropped his chin and shook his head with a snide grin.  
“Steve?” Peter questioned, taking a cautious step toward him.  
Steve didn’t lift his head. Kept his jaw tight and his mouth shut. His gauged his fingers into the bedding.  
"You want to be with him?" Bucky asked. "Then you need to know his true nature first. I was gonna wait. Ease you into it. That’s why you were gonna spend three nights with the one of us who’s a little /saner/ first. But, hey, if you think you can give him what he needs, go for it, Champ. You dig right in."  
Peter’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t scrape two words together. The fantasy of having his way with Steve looked so much different now.  
"Bucky—" Steve whispered.  
"He should know."  
"Then let me tell him," Steve burst as he jerked up his chin to meet Bucky's eyes, Steve's voice strident, but unstable.  
"Fine.” Bucky came off the doorframe and swaggered into the room. He dropped into the armchair by the window, curtains drawn. He spread out, lacing his fingers behind his head. “When you're done, we can start talking punishment."  
"Punishment?" Peter repeated, clutching the handle of the knife a little tighter.  
"mm. Steve will get his tonight. But believe me, Queens. Yours is only just beginning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehhh.  
> >:] -casually steps off the cliff into The Pit.;


	15. The Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tells the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never set out to unveil how I've always seen Stucky.  
> But that's what fucking happened. So here ya go.

For the next half an hour, Steve Rogers told Peter Parker a story—some of it sad, most of it ugly, and all of it heavy enough to break Peter’s heart and shatter his perceptions.  
It was a story about a boy with an unnatural need for pain. A thirst for thrill and danger. A story about a boy who had been frail and sickly and still stood toe to toe with anyone who could pummel him into the pavement. A boy who knew he wasn’t supposed to look at other boys the way he did. A boy who hated himself for the cancerous thoughts that plagued him.  
The boy became a man who knew the only place he could make use of his sickness, maybe even find penance, was in war. He tried to enlist so many times, failing each and every attempt. After being selected for an experimental procedure, the boy’s fragility became a distant memory. He was finally allowed to fight. But punishing himself became exponentially more difficult. It took so much more to cause him the pain he craved. The pain he deserved.  
A story about a man who, even in an era of acceptance, required agony and humiliation to prove he was still alive. He felt so artificial: a relic of a bygone age wearing a skin he wasn’t born with, trying to find some purpose for his life after surviving The Freeze. God hadn’t welcomed him then. Not even after sacrificing himself to save an entire country. No. Instead, God left him at the bottom of the crushing blue, a Hell of darkness and ice that the man revisted when he slept. Against all odds, the man woke up on the surface only to find himself in an alien world.  
Not a miracle. A curse.  
It made him more of an abomination than the transgressions of his sickly years ever could.  
A story of a man who hungered ravenously for mutilating the constant reminder that he wasn’t allowed to be frail anymore. Incapable of purifying his mind. Unable to atone enough to see his mother again. A man whose only salvation was discovering that the lover he would chase over the edge of the Earth and into eternity was still alive. A lover who, after what HYDRA had done to him (and oh the terrors they had wrought), understood his sickness better than any other. A lover who, conversely, needed to inflict pain in order to feel empowered, autonomous, and avenged.  
Steve told Peter a story of two men stomaching their wickedness solely because they had found absolution in each other.  
They fit together like a lock and key, grime and rust and clotting blood notwithstanding. It was both a horror and masterpiece. A nightmare and a fairytale. Distorted. Murky. Full of deception and lies and a love so convoluted and tenacious that it nauseated Peter. Made him question… everything.  
Peter sat on the bed’s edge, staring down at the knife in his hands and the sliver of his own reflection in the blade.  
He threw away all he had assumed—every unspoken thing he had taken as gospel—and accepted all they had hidden from him; from everyone. It changed the landscape of Peter’s reality. Maybe even the nature of love itself.  
Peter had never truly known them until now—not really. He had merely believed what they let him see.  
Theirs was a romance fit for the slums of purgatory, forged in fire. They were doomed to burn for one another until only ash remained. For that was how Steve and Bucky lived: in perpetual limbo. Steve bound by the thick chains of his shame in a man-made body addicted to the pain Bucky provided. Bucky, unable to exact his rage unless explicitly permitted, trapped in the twisted kingdom of his mind, wandering the fog choked roads until he found Steve and devoured him again.  
And again.  
And again.  
/The wolf and the lamb./  
Peter balked, struck by the sudden volt of memory. Bucky had warned him, Peter realized, on Samhain. He had told him all he needed to know. Bucky had amalgamated their definitive definition into a handful of words that Peter hadn’t afforded a second thought.  
The wolf and the lamb.  
The executioner and the sacrifice.  
Was Peter strong enough for this? Did he have the gumption? The stomach for it?  
The three of them sat in silence, the muffled sounds of their thriving city playing just beyond the walls. Yet, it felt so far away.  
“Where can I possibly fit in this? What could I ever give you?”  
“Peter…” Peter felt a warm hand on his arm. “Don’t you know?” Steve asked.  
Peter lifted his chin to meet Steve’s dry eyes, the crinkles appearing again in the corners. Behind him, still seated on the chair and steeped in shadow, Bucky leered.  
“Know what?” Peter whispered.  
“That’s enough,” Buck stated. He stood up and shed his coat. “Storytime is over.” Bucky crossed the floor and put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve bent his elbow and clutched Bucky’s hand. “Here are your options, Parker. You stand at the foot of this bed and watch what we are, or you leave this house. And I'll come for you when we're through.” There was lightning in his eyes and thunder in his voice.  
No one else knew, Peter realized as the floor dropped out from under his feet. Steve had imparted knowledge, their deepest aches, once exclusive to themselves unto him. /Him./ They had shared their ultimate vulnerability. And it had been Bucky’s idea.  
They… They trusted him. Or did Bucky just want to drive him away? Did Bucky think he'd pussy out? Peter wouldn't, couldn't, give him that satisfaction.  
If that wasn't the case, Peter didn’t know what he’d done to earn this; to be granted access to the dark side of their moon.  
Peter took his attention from Bucky and looked at Steve—his shoulders squared and his expression impassive, even as that same balminess shone through his eyes. Peter tried to picture the man he so admired splashed in red.  
Peter had wanted 'in' without knowing what he was in for. It had been presumptuous. But did he regret it?  
He thought about last night. About the safety he felt while under Bucky’s control. He reflected on this evening—the warmth and tenderness he had experienced from Steve.  
No. He regretted nothing. He had to follow this rabbit hole. He'd follow them anywhere.  
“If I watch,” Peter said, his voice unreliable, “do I still have to sleep alone?”  
Peter had expected Bucky to flippantly affirm the notion. But it was Steve who reached out, took Peter’s hand off of the knife, and brought it up to kiss his palm. Peter hesitantly raised his eyes.  
“No,” Steve answered.  
Bucky didn’t say a word. It was like the time in the shower—the time when Bucky acknowledged Steve’s corrective initiative and didn’t argue with him. They were a team, Peter realized. And the pendulum of power, while it normally swung in Barnes’ direction, would always default to Steve.  
Peter blinked.  
How hadn’t he seen this before?  
Bucky may have been the domineering force. But Steve was the commander. At the core of this mess, Bucky wasn’t in control. Bucky had to be asked, told, to harm. It was Steve who held the reins. Bucky gave orders, occupied the throne... because he was allowed to. It was what they needed from one another.  
Checks and balances.  
The understanding, somehow, relieved Peter. He saw that validation reflected in Steve's face.  
“Afterward, I need to know about the time it went too far,” Peter stated. “Please.”  
Steve paused. He looked to Bucky whose stony expression didn’t change. Steve acquiesced with a nod.  
“And… If you’re gonna do the Russian stuff, I’ll need it translated.” Peter, blushing hotly, knew he was pushing his luck.  
“I don’t remember giving you the option to broker my fuckin’ deal,” Bucky snarled. “I don’t subtitle shit.”  
Peter looked up into Bucky’s green eyes—the green of armored tanks—and swallowed.  
“I’ll teach you,” Steve offered, his large hand giving Peter’s long fingers a squeeze. “You can use your phone this time, if you feel the need to.”  
Peter shivered, his nakedness forgotten until that moment. “Then I’m staying.”  
“OK.” After another squeeze, Steve released Peter’s hand, turned his palm up, and unfurled his fingers. Peter, briefly confused, met his blues.  
Peter’s gaze fell to the boning knife. He swallowed hard. Gradually, dangerous end pointed toward Steve, Peter extended the knife. Steve, with calculated care, took the blade from him, flipped it fluidly through his fingers, and held it up to Bucky who grasped it by the handle.  
“Gotov otvyechat',” Bucky said.*  
“You have my permission, soldier,” Steve answered, though his eyes were fixed on Peter. “Nachnitye'.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “Ready to comply.”  
> ** “Begin.”
> 
> 1\. I posted a sample of this chapter on another workspace because I love publishing unprompted angst. After reading it, an incredibly talented woman whom I work with on the forum left a song that’s so applicable to this version of Stucky, it floored me. Digital Daggers, “In Flames”. Give it a listen!  
> 2\. The cocktail of excitement, frustration, and shock generated by the last piece was so fun to read. Thank you for taking the time to express your feelings about this story. Your responses keep me cranking! (That, and the fact that this happens to be a three-day weekend.)  
> 3\. This particular flavor of James Buchanan Barnes continues to be inspired by a real roleplay profile moderated by one of the most incredible wordsmiths in my life. Also happens to be a best friend. I write as his Rogers (also the one depicted in this fic) and I’m so blessed to know them.  
> 4\. WE ALL WANT ALL THE SMUT, I KNOW. That's all Chapter 16 (still vacillating between the titles of Bloodplay and Body Beat) will be. Listen, Linda. Listen. I have to handle this with delicacy and diligence while simultaneously being vile and raunchy. Writing from the perspective of a person who has never witnessed torture in a sexual context before requires a fairly gruesome headspace. And that will require (much) wine. I also need to formally adjust the trigger warnings attached to this fic. And I should probably add an all caps "dead dove--do not eat".
> 
> If you bare with me, you won't be sorry! Thank you.  
> ~ Harper


End file.
